


Gaudium Ténebris

by GravenLament



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe, Angst, Animal Transformation, Bottom Severus, Consensual Underage Sex, Creature Fic, Creature Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Good Albus Dumbledore, Good Severus Snape, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Potions, M/M, Slash, Top Harry, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravenLament/pseuds/GravenLament
Summary: Life is never easy for The-Boy-Who-Lived, but his fifth year at Hogwarts takes strife to new extremes. After Professor Snape sacrifices his role as Order spy in order to rescue the young Gryffindor from Umbridge's sadistic clutches life becomes even more complicated, and the darkness on the horizon may soon envelope all who stand against it.





	1. Punished

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: This is one of my old stories from the HP fandom site. A copy of this story was transferred to this site when everything was ported over. I was without a computer at that time and missed being able to claim my story when the port happened. I have made multiple attempts at contacting the Archive of Our Own administrators to take possession of this story, but after several months with no reply I have decided to go ahead and post a copy here on my account. Please consider this the official location for this story.

_Friday, May 2nd_

Fifth year. Dumbledore was gone, Umbridge was in control, and it was if the world had gone mad. Suddenly, the teachers, once paragons of adult authority and control, were emasculated and left as powerless as the students. The happy halls of Hogwarts were now dreary in the absence of joy and childish laughter. Innocence and hope had been crushed by the Ministry's dogsbody. Without that special ephemeral element, the world had gone gray.

Harry had thought it could get no worse, until this. Because he refused to bend to her will, Umbridge announced that he was to be punished. Since Harry Potter would not submit willingly to the new regime, and the numerous painful detentions Dolores heaped on the boy had not broken him, he would suffer a public punishment. He would be punished in the Great Hall following dinner.

As the golden plates and goblets vanished from the House tables, along with the remnants of the meal, Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad trooped into the Hall with a struggling Gryffindor in their midst. It was obvious to everyone that the boy had been roughed up to some extent. He sported a few visible bruises, and his uniform was torn in places. His trademark round glasses were missing. On the heels of the Squad and their prisoner came a cadre of Aurors who quickly fanned out and positioned themselves along the walls. At the Gryffindor table Harry's friends were struck dumb at Harry's appearance. All the students fell silent, finally realizing just how serious the situation had become.

Severus Snape. and indeed all the teachers at the high table, stiffened. The Potions Master had felt uneasy all day, ever since Umbridge had announced after breakfast Potter's public punishment. Whatever she had planned went well beyond what was allowed in the Hogwarts charter. Umbridge stepped down from her place in the Headmaster's chair and turned, smiling that disgustingly false saccharine smile.

“It is the duty of every teacher to see to the education and training of their students. Not only to see that they become knowledgeable future citizens of our great society, but obedient ones as well. Everyone at that table has failed this boy, Harry Potter, and failed him badly. Now, to correct your errors and see that he becomes the wizard he is meant to be, I will have to correct him. To ensure no other student at this venerable institution falls so far from the mark as he has, you will all stand witness to this. Walden, we're ready for you!” Dolores finished by calling back through the open Hall doors to the shadowy figure waiting there.

Walden Macnair entered and nodded to Umbridge before pointing his wand at the floor in the center of the Hall and muttering a spell under his breath. A towering log of polished oak materialized, from the top hung two chains which ended in iron manacles. Gasps rang out from every quarter. The implications of the appearance of that particular object were horrifying in their clarity. Minerva shot to her feet along with the majority of the staff. Severus stayed in his seat, but was no less shocked and outraged than the Depute Headmistress. Standing off to the side, Argus Filch looked elated and was smiling broadly. It was no secret the bitter squib caretaker lived for the day corporal punishments were reinstated at Hogwarts.

“Dolores! What is the meaning of this!” Minerva was livid, and the witches and wizards surrounding her could feel the crackling of her magic.

“Silence!” Umbridge ordered. “Aurors, containment ward now please.” With a pop and a hum glittering transparent wards surrounded the center of the Hall, keeping the students and teachers from approaching.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger rushed at the barrier only to be flung back. Hermione began to cry. Both she and the red head who took her in his arms could only watch as the vicious scene played itself out and wish that Dumbledore had never been relieved of his position. They needed the wily old fox now more than ever.

Macnair grinned maliciously as he tore Harry from the hands of his Inquisitorial guards and shoved him toward the wooden pillar. The boy stumbled and went sprawling, head slamming into the ground leaving him dazed. Walden laughed, a cackle tinged with dark glee. Never before had the Ministry allowed him to practice his craft on a human, and he intended to savor every moment.

Harry soon found himself bound in the manacles, arms stretched painfully above his head, and could only think he deserved what was happening to him. He should have held his tongue. How often had that insolent appendage gotten him into trouble in the past? He knew better! But every time he looked at the abomination in pink that posed as a teacher, rage overcame his common sense. It was clear he was to be whipped, and with that knowledge actually came a form of relief. It was the waiting, the anticipation of the unknown that had been torture. This was something he could handle, had handled before, and probably would again. This was nothing. There would be pain, yes, but he knew how to deal with pain. He'd been doing it all his life. He leaned his head against the cool smooth oak in resignation and prepared himself to meet his punishment as stoically as he could.

The teachers had by this time all abandoned the high table and were standing outside the magical barrier analyzing and trying to determine how best to dismantle it, Snape included. Spy and ruthless bastard though he may be, he would not stand aside and watch a student be tortured. Not even a Potter.

Umbridge smirked at her colleagues through the sparkling transparent wall. They were so very predictable. Most times she found it infuriating, but at the moment she was amused. She pitied them that they lacked her vision.  _No matter. They will appreciate the results of my efforts eventually._ Once corrected the Potter boy would be much improved. Malleable. Ready to take his place in society. Perhaps her niece would like to be affianced to the boy. Yes. Just perhaps. Millicent would certainly be able to keep him in line. He was only a half-blood, but married correctly his children would be pure, and he did have wealth and cache, or would once he reached his majority. Dolores would have to look into it later.

“If you continue to attempt interference, I will give Walden permission to cast the Cruciatus on Potter for twenty seconds.” Her sickening smile and syrupy tone drew more than one scowl from the teachers, but they did desist attempting to break through. “Thank you, for your cooperation. Walden, you may commence with his punishment.”

“Tollere vestimenta!” Macnair snapped, and the young Gryffindor was laid bare, clothing exploding into shreds that landed in a tangle around the boy's feet.

Severus and many others sucked in a harsh breath. The young man was painfully thin, and littered with more scars than any boy should reasonably be able to claim. There was no way Quidditch could account for them. Black eyes grew wide as the Potions Master's prodigious intellect quickly identified the only legitimate reason for those many telltale scars to exist. He had been wrong about many things in his life, but this was perhaps the most damning. Next to him Filius made a strange little hiccuping sound, and when Severus locked eyes with the diminutive Charms Master, he knew the man had come to the same conclusion.

“So, it's not only me you continually defy. No matter, Mr. Potter. Walden is very talented, and you'll see reason soon enough.” Dolores taunted. “Turn him so the students have a better view of his back. I want them to have the chance to truly appreciate this lesson.”

The boy was shuffled around the pole, body taut. Harry blushed, very aware of the eyes on his naked form. Shame filled him, knowing that they were all looking at the scars he had so carefully hidden.  _I'll never be able to look any of them in the eyes again. What must Ron and Hermione think?_  He pushed his face further against the pole and waited. Nothing he had accomplished since coming to school would matter now. Somewhere in the Hall he heard someone begin to sob. It sounded like a girl. He didn't look to see who it was.

“Dolores! Please stop this!” Harry almost smiled. Good old McGonagall. As loyal as any Hufflepuff.

“Proceed, Mr. Macnair.”

Harry heard a sharp whistling just before the first lance of pain seared his back. Harry held his breath and grit his teeth.  _That's definitely worse than Vernon's belt._  Another whistle and another lash. The boy's body jerked involuntarily, but he held his scream. He wouldn't scream for his Uncle, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do it for Umbridge. Harry turned inward and pushed each sharp crystalline stab of agony away from himself. He was in his cupboard in his mind. He was safe. His body jittered and flinched with each stroke of the whip, but Harry wouldn't allow himself to feel it. He swallowed it down. More people were crying now. Shouting. Begging Macnair to stop. Harry barely heard them. He listened to the rain, muffled and soothing, as he lay curled in the security of his dark place of safety.

Severus had never seen Minerva cry before this day, and he could honestly say he never wanted to see it again. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she flinched each time the leather connected with Potter's pale flesh, but she forced herself to watch. Pamona Sprout turned away as soon as the blood began to flow. She sobbed into Rolanda Hooch's shoulder as the gruff flying instructor cursed a blue streak at Umbridge and Macnair. Nothing she uttered could match the obscenity of what they were doing to the boy. Young man. Snape had to admire him. Admire that he wouldn't submit, not even to end the pain. Severus wasn't sure he could have endured it despite the many times he had suffered a well cast Cruciatus.

The students watched in horrified fascination. Some crying. Several screaming. The Weasleys and Granger clung to one another in desperation. Neville Longbottom looked like he wanted to be sick or faint. Possibly both. At the beginning of this fiasco, the Slytherins, Draco Malfoy in particular, had been excited. Enthralled with the chance to see the Golden Boy Potter humiliated. Now they stared in pale-faced shock. It wasn't exciting at all. The blonde ice prince watched with glassy eyes as his school yard nemesis had the skin flayed from his back and felt his well cultivated animosity melt away.  _Potter doesn't deserve this. Merlin, no one does._  Suddenly Draco wasn't so proud of being on Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad. He had a feeling his friends shared that sentiment.

“Stop a moment, Walden.” Dolores' girlish sing-song voice was like nails on a chalk board. “Tell me, Mr. Potter. Aren't you sorry for your disruptive behavior? Sorry for spreading wild rumors and causing so many problems. Aren't you ready to behave and be a good boy now? Tell me, what do you think?”

Harry didn't answer. He stayed still against the post, breath ragged, sagging in the manacles. Macnair strode forward and grasped the boy by the hair and jerked his head back roughly.

“Well! Answer her you piece of filth!”

“I think you're both sick fucks.” Harry rasped. Macnair slapped him, bouncing his head off the post. Umbridge saw red and marched over to Macnair.

“Give him fifty more, Walden, and use the Capsaicin.” she snarled.

“With pleasure, Dolores.” Macnair grinned and withdrew a vial of oil from his robe. He quickly slicked it over the length of his whip while Umbridge retreated to her former spot. Before stepping back to unfurl his intrument, he leaned in, stroked Harry's face, and murmured in his victim's ear like a lover. “I'll break you yet, little boy.”

Severus, barely six feet from the whipping post, heard the man's words and glared. Potter was right. Macnair was a sick fuck. The man was enjoying himself, delighting in the torture. The Potions Master was already planning Walden's demise. Severus had several slow acting poisons that would be perfect for the monster. Umbridge wouldn't get away with it either, he decided, but poison would be too good for her.

The next time the whip bit into Harry's back he hissed and gnashed his teeth. His back was on fire, and it was stoked higher with each subsequent lash. He felt his eyes begin to water, but stuggled to keep the tears from falling.  _I will not break. I will not break. I will not break._  He chanted in his mind, but couldn't quite make it back into his cupboard space. The burning was just too intense on top of everything else. He bit into his bottom lip to stifle the cries that threatened to break free. His body, flooded with adrenaline, began to tremble. Panic and something akin to both heat and electricity raced through his extremities.

There was a flash and a crash like thunder and Macnair and Umbridge were thrown back. The wards shimmered red and then collapsed in a shower of sparks. Harry might have been helpless physically, but his accidental magic had always been stronger than most. It escaped now to his benefit. Umbridge and Macnair were hauling themselves to their feet, faces masks of pure rage, and the Aurors were trying to shove through the crowd of students to reach the center of the Hall and retake control of the situation.

Severus didn't pause to think. Spying be damned, he refused to let this continue. They would kill Harry. He rushed forward and vanished the manacles from the boy's wrists and gathered the bloodied young hero in his arms before he could crumple to the floor. Macnair glared at him and started to draw his wand. The Dark Lord would hear of the Potion Master's treachery before the night was through, Severus was sure. He shouted the activation phrase to his hidden emergency portkey and he and his charge whirled away from the chaos.

They landed in a dimly lit room with a cheerful fire glowing on the hearth. The smell of paper and vellum identified the room as a library. The startled blue eyes of the old man sitting behind the desk across from them told Severus exactly to whom the library belonged. The boy in his arms let out a great shuddering breath and fainted. Snape held on, though he was finally reminded of the fact that the boy in his arms was also still very much nude.

“Severus?” Dumbledore stood and came around the desk.

“Help me, Albus. He needs medical care. Where can I place him?”

“The couch should do for now. Severus, is... is that Harry?” Worry creased the man's wizened brow.

“It's Potter alright.” Snape grunted as he deposited the bloody boy face down on the couch.

“What has happened?”

“Umbridge!” Severus spat. “Do you have a medical kit on hand?”

The old man waved his wand and a large carpet bag sailed in through the doorway. He passed the bag to Severus and then charmed the lights brighter so the man could see to work. A basin was conjured and then filled with steaming water. Severus searched the bag and withdrew a vial of murtlap essence and emptied it into the basin before summoning a cloth and beginning to gently sponge away the blood on the shredded remains of the prostrate young man's back. The wounds revealed were more terrible than Severus had originally thought.  _Macnair must have charmed his whip to deal extra dammage. The bleeding sadist!_

“What can I do to help, Severus?” Albus' voice quavered and Severus realized the old man was doing his best to control his emotions.

“Nothing at the moment, Albus. I can manage. It looks dreadful, but is well within my abilities to heal.”

“How did Harry come to be like this, my boy. What did Dolores do?”

Severus sighed and looked up at his only friend and mentor. The old man was very much shaken by Potter's injuries and wasn't going to stop questioning until he had the answers he desired. The Potions Master would rather finish his work before having that particular conversation, but knew Albus wouldn't let him.

“She had her student enforcers abduct Potter last evening, and hold him in some undisclosed location in the castle. This morning at breakfast she announced to the school that due to the fact that he was an attention seeking liar that refused to obey her and the Ministry, he would be publicly punished following dinner. She had Aurors on hand to back her up, and called in Macnair to do the honors. The injuries you see are his handiwork. He used a bullwhip.” the man explained, voice neutral, dispassionate even, but his eyes burned with anger.

Several fat tears finally escaped the Headmaster's eyes and the usual twinkle faded entirely. He nodded his understanding, obviously unable to speak. Severus continued his ministrations.

“You can't see them now, due to the blood and fresh injuries, but when Potter was stripped for the whipping...” Severus trailed off, finding it hard to admit just what everyone had seen.  _Albus has to be told._  “Albus, he was already covered in scars. He's been abused. Badly. The scars are consistent with previous whippings, probably with a belt or switch.”

Albus squeezed his eyes closed tightly and rocked back on his heels as if struck. Severus continued to work on the mangled wreck below him, but glanced up repeatedly to make sure Albus was alright.

“I knew,” the Headmaster began, in a weak papery voice, “that Harry was not happy with his relatives, but I swear to you, Severus, I never knew they physically hurt the lad. Merlin, what have I done?”

“Save the self-recriminations for later, Albus. Let's just get him through this current catastrophe and then we'll see about clearing up the matter with his relatives.” the younger man growled.

The boy moaned and twitched, causing Severus to withdraw his hands. Harry's accidental magic had proven itself quite admirably able to lash out at threats to the boy, and Snape didn't want to be mistaken for one. Severus smirked. He would treasure the image of that pink toad of a woman sailing through the air till his dying day. It might even prove to be a patronus worthy memory.

Harry groaned low in his throat. His back was locus of burning pain, and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth through Umbridge's special punishment. Cool plush velvet was under him. So very soft. Harry tried to focus on that instead of the pain, but it didn't work. There was no hiding from it. This was far worse than suffering a beating from his uncle. His uncle was too out of shape to work him over too much. Usually by ten licks the man was panting and covered with sweat from the exertion. Macnair, on the other hand, was a fit wizard in his prime. Harry consoled himself with the knowledge that, fit or not, Macnair still hadn't torn a single scream from his throat. That counted for something at least. He accepted he was worthless in a lot of aspects, but Harry still clung to his pride.

The boy turned his head to the side and looked at the blurry figures of two wizards through half-lidded eyes. He wished Malfoy hadn't broken his glasses. He'd like to know if he were with friend or foe. He remembered someone grabbing him and the cuffs vanishing from his wrists. He remembered the nauseating trip by portkey. That was all. He didn't know who had taken him or where they'd ended up.

“How are you feeling, Harry my boy?” There was no mistaking that voice. Harry offered the Headmaster a tired little half smile.

“M'live.” the boy croaked.

“That you are, Harry, and we hope to keep you that way. Just stay as relaxed as you can while Professor Snape finishes up with your back, alright?” So it was Snape who'd grabbed him. Seems he owed the prickly bastard yet again. Harry thought he must owe the man a dozen life debts by now.

“Okay.” he answered, hating that he sounded so weak.

“Here, Potter.” Snape pressed a potion vial to Harry's lips. He swallowed the nasty concoction without complaint, recognizing the pain relieving draught by taste. Madam Pomfrey had given them to him often enough over the years. Tingling numbness spread through his body, and the pain was banked to a dull roar. Harry sighed in relief. The Potions Master began to sponge off the boy's back once again, but aside from the occasional spasm, Harry accepted his ministrations placidly.

“Most of the damage is to your back, Potter, but Macnair did stripe your thighs and buttocks as well. You should limit yourself to lying on your stomach for the next day, at least, if you wish to stay comfortable. With the healing salve I'm about to apply, it would be best to remain unclothed, but we will drape you with a sheet for modesty's sake.” Severus informed him. Harry couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed by his lack of attire.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Severus blinked, unaccustomed to such complacency from the boy.

Harry hissed and shuddered when the Potion Master's long nimble fingers began to smooth the healing salve over his abraded skin, but quickly marshaled himself. It needed to be done, and complaining wouldn't help. Snape was being surprisingly gentle, and Harry did appreciate that. He was sure the man was less than thrilled with having to touch the bane of his existence in such an intimate way, and having a man do this was less embarrassing than submitting to the medi-witch's care. Painful or not, the tender little circles Snape's fingers were making on Harry's battered flesh were rather soothing, and soon the boy surrendered once more to unconsciousness.

Severus finished his work and the Headmaster settled a soft thin sheet over the sleeping Gryffindor. Both men stared down at the young man in silence for several moments before Albus nudged Snape's elbow and nodded toward the door. The Headmaster dimmed the lights on the way out while Severus cast a warming charm over the room. Confident they had made the boy as comfortable as they could for the time being, the men headed down the hall to the kitchen for a much needed cup of tea.

“He will need a safe haven for the summer. He cannot be allowed to return to his relatives.” Severus stated after Albus handed him a steaming cup of mint tea.

“No. He won't be returning to the Dursleys. I will have to look into alternate accommodations. If Voldemort wasn't such a threat at this time I would arrange for Molly and Arthur to take over guardianship, but it just isn't feasible. They are already a target, and adding Harry to their family would only increase their probability of being attacked.” Albus sighed and sipped his drink, longing for something a bit stronger. “However, I will need to figure something out soon. It will be dangerous for Harry if news of him leaving his relative's care becomes public knowledge. As an unguarded orphan with no close magical kin, he will be vulnerable. I fear what the Ministry might try to do.”

Severus glowered into his tea. Yes. Things were atrocious enough for the boy now, but if news of his changed circumstances were to come to light... So much could go wrong. How easy would it be for someone like Lucius Malfoy to buy the guardianship and then hand Potter over to the Dark Lord? Too bloody easy, and he wasn't the only Death Eater wealthy enough to accomplish it.  _The boy must live. The prophesy must be fulfilled._

“Granting custody to an inappropriate guardian would be unconscionable. However, just as devastating would be Harry forced to accept a betrothal contract from an unsavory family. Until now, acting as magical proxy for Petunia, I've been able to reject all such offers stating that his family wishes to leave his future matrimonial alliance up to his discretion when he reaches his majority.” Severus looked up sharply and listened intently to the old man as he bemoaned the young hero's uncertain lot.

“How many contracts have been offered?”

“To date, I've politely refused no less than seventy-six offers. All from very prominent pure-blood families, the majority of which have been at least Dark sympathizers.” Albus groused.

“So many...” Severus was shocked that there hadn't been a scandal over the whole ordeal. It was a shameful thing for a pure-blood family to have an offer of betrothal rejected. To have one rejected by a half-blood, impressive fortune and fame or not, would be a bitter potion for most families to swallow.  _Albus must have played them all masterfully for there to never have been a public outcry._

“So you can see that problem clearly, I'm sure. If people were to discover he is no longer with his muggle relations, he will be flooded with contracts and the Ministry might be persuaded to force Harry to accept one of their choosing. I want to avoid that scenario at all costs.”

“Quite.”

“Another problem arises with the fact that when Harry doesn't return to Surrey this summer the Blood Wards on his Aunt's home will begin to fail, and will most likely disappear entirely by his birthday. Normally that wouldn't be an issue, but in this instance I outsmarted myself.” Dumbledore actually looked sheepish at this admission.

“What did you do, Albus?” Severus was almost afraid to find out.

“When I first set the wards on the property, there were still numerous Death Eaters at large. So, I had an Order operative at the Ministry tie an alarm there to trigger should the wards break for any reason. That operative has since retired and I have no others in a Ministry position that would allow them access to dismantle that alarm. We have roughly three months to divine a solution to this particular quandary until everything... Ahh... What's the muggle phrase? Ah, yes. Goes to hell in a hand basket.”

“Bugger.”

“That does just about sum it up.” Albus slumped in his chair and took a sip of his now tepid beverage. He couldn't summon the energy to cast a warming charm if his life depended on it.

So much to think about. Too much in fact, and Severus was tired. So much had happened. Umbridge's Grand Guignol after dinner entertainment, discovering the boy's home life was more than likely less than fawning.  _Ahh yes, and how did that information not emerge during our Occlumency lessons?_  Playing nurse to a boy whom until now Severus had all but despised, and what's more actually doing so with compassion. The whole evening was a blood streaked blur of riotous disarray to be quite honest, and now Severus had the disconcerting notion that he had forgotten something crucial.


	2. Exchanges of Pain and Tenderness

_Saturday, May 3rd_

Just after midnight Severus was painfully reminded just what had slipped his mind. The Dark Mark on his left forearm burst into instant agonizing pain and he was ripped forcibly from his slumber just as a scream was ripped unwillingly from his throat. He had been tormented through his Mark before, but never to such a degree. Within moments he was drenched in sweat, borrowed nightshirt clinging to him like a second skin as he writhed in bed, fingers scrabbling at the vicious parody of a tattoo as if he could actually peel the offending flesh away. No amount of clawing could grant relief, but in his pain induced madness, that fact had slipped the spy's mind.

Light bloomed in the bedchamber and Albus Dumbledore's voice echoed as he channeled a spell in a vain attempt to alleviate his Potions Master's agony. When it was obvious the attack was continuing unabated the old man settled for a binding spell to restrain the thrashing man from further injuring himself.

“Oh, my boy.” the Headmaster muttered, voice filled with sadness. “My dear boy. I am sorry.”

The sound of uneven footsteps heralded the arrival of the house's third and final occupant. Albus turned and watched as Harry lurched painfully into the room, ragged body wrapped in his sheet as if it were some sort of oversized toga. The boy clung to the medical bag that had been used to help him earlier in one hand, as the other braced him against the wall so he could keep his balance.

“Harry, you should not be up in your condition.” Dumbledore gently admonished.

“With all due respect, Sir... Sod my condition.” Harry panted before thrusting his burden at the Headmaster. “Will any of this help?”

Albus took the bag and sat it on the edge of the bed before beginning to rummage through the contents. Harry staggered closer and gripped the closest bedpost for support. For a while the sound of clinking glass dueled with sharp cries and haggard breathing for dominance.

“I am unsure, Harry, that anything may be done. Tom is using his Mark to do this to Severus.”

“I know. I saw. McNair was overjoyed to be able to tattle.” Harry said, absently rubbing his inflamed scar with his free hand. “Voldemort is going to kill the Professor, if he can. He was having trouble though, and was getting very frustrated by the time I woke up. Said he should be able to drain him, but something is getting in the way. So he settled on torture instead.” Harry stared at his Professor and for the first time since meeting the man, felt the stirring of respect and empathy.  _He puts so much on the line, and gets nothing back but ridicule and pain._  Harry knew he would never look at the surly spy in the same way again.

“Drain him?” Albus paused in his search and glanced up at the boy.

“Of life or magic, I guess. It wasn't clear what he meant.” Harry shrugged then winced. His welts were still too raw to allow such a movement.

“The wards on my home must be filtering out the worst of Tom's magic. Blocking the most malignant functions of his Mark. However I do not know what can be done to stop the torture.” Albus sighed and continued his search.

“Couldn't you sedate the Professor, at least?” Harry asked, tone and expression plaintive. The man continued to writhe despite being magically bound, face seemingly frozen in a rictus of torment while keening noised slipped between clenched teeth.

“Because of the nature of the Mark, such potions will not function as they normally would. I only wish that were not the case. Ah, here we are, perhaps we can ease the physical effects a bit with this.” Albus said, withdrawing a vial of fluid. “Pareira extract solution.”

Albus walked around the bed and pointed his wand at Snape's arm and the limb was pulled straight and away from the man's body. Then, with a swish and a twirl, a squashy purple paisley arm chair was conjured beside the bed.

“Harry, my lad, I need your help.” the old man beckoned. “I need you to stay with Severus and apply this pareira while I go and search my library for information to help with his current predicament. Can you do that for me, please?” Earnest blue eyes captured green. The amount of trust present in that gaze left Harry feeling humbled.

“Yes, Sir.” Harry swallowed thickly but didn't break eye contact. “You can count on me.” The headmaster smiled at him.

“I know.” The old man cast a quick barrier spell on Harry's hands to prevent the solution from absorbing into the boy's skin, then one ancient yet steady hand rested on messy raven locks in fondness for just a moment before Dumbledore swept from the room at a speed that belied his advanced years.

Gathering his sheet around him, Harry lowered himself into the conjured chair with great care. He hissed. It hurt, but he could manage. He dribbled a small amount of the oily substance on his fingers and then began to apply it to the now scraped and blistered mark in small gentle circles just as the Professor had done for his back. His scar seemed to prickle and tingle. Harry assumed it was because both his scar and the Professor's Mark came from the same source. Sometimes it seemed as if Harry could feel the snake that extended from the gaping mouth of the skull in the Mark moving beneath his fingers. It was almost as if a tiny serpent were trapped under the man's skin. Harry couldn't help but shiver each time he felt it, but continued his work.

Severus was lost, drowning in a river of hot molten pain. It raged around him, and through him; caught him up and swept him away. In the distance he could hear two familiar voices conversing, but paid them no attention. His mind was focused on the point from which the pain sprang. That so much agony flowed from such a small spot seemed ludicrous, but it could not be refuted. He had misery the length and breadth of the Nile flowing from his forearm, trying, and succeeding, to sink him in pure suffering. There was only himself and the pain. Not even his prodigious skill in Occlumency could stave off the flood. Coherent thought had long abandoned him.

Then, a cooling touch fell on the pain. It divided it, and began to part the cloud that had fallen over his mind. The pain continued to exist, but was being curbed. Severus slowly relaxed his jaw, then cracked open his eyes and looked up at the canopy above him. It wasn't the one he was used to. He wasn't in his quarters at Hogwarts. Finally, he began to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there. He turned his gaze on his burning arm, half expecting to see it mangled beyond repair, only to see that it was scratched and blistered. Agile fingers attached to smooth young hands spread soothing oil over the abhorrent brand. Severus would know them anywhere, having watched them botch countless potions in his class over the past four and a half years.

“Potter.” he rasped. The boy looked up and gave him a weak smile as he continued applying the pareira.

“It's good to see you back with us, Professor.” And wonder of wonders, it actually did sound as if the boy was happy, or at least relieved.

“Why am I bound?”

“Sorry about that, Sir. If I had my wand I'd try to undo the charm. The Headmaster had to bind you because you were thrashing and clawing at your arm, so you wouldn't hurt yourself.” Harry apologized, and again surprised the Potions Master with his sincerity.

“Where is the Headmaster, and why aren't you still lying down?” The crankiness underlying the man's tone was almost welcome to the boy. Snape was obviously feeling a lot better than he had. “You will no doubt remember I mentioned you shouldn't be sitting. It will only aggravate the welts.”

“He went to search his library for something to help you. He asked me to stay and see if the pareira would help in the meantime.” Harry ignored the comments about his injuries. At the moment the pain was tolerable.

“I think that is enough pareira extract for the moment, Potter. You've applied enough, and as long as it remains wet, it will continue to work as it has.”

The boy stopped making the languid circles and slowly withdrew his hands. Severus looked back at his arm and frowned. The pain didn't surge back at the lack of contact, but he found he missed it anyway. It had been soothing, in a way. Not that he'd ever admit it. Harry leaned closer to the marred appendage and narrowed his eyes.

“It is moving. I thought I felt it, but was sure I was imagining things.” Awe tinged his mellow young tenor.

“No, you weren't imagining things, Potter. It often moves. It is part of  _His_  magic.” Severus growled, his mouth twisting into a sneer of distaste. Green eyes widened and the darted up to meet their obsidian counterparts.

“Can you feel it when it moves, Sir?” asked the boy, voice hushed and horrified.

“Oh yes. As I said, it is part of  _His_  magic. A constant reminder, if you will, of Him-Who-We-Must-Serve.” Severus looked away in self-disgust, unable to hold the emerald gaze any longer. Even after his long service as a spy, he felt loathsome for willingly taking the Dark Mark. Tainted.

“When it moves it looks so real.” Harry squinted forcing his eyes to focus on the image of the snake without his glasses, wondering. “Sir... okay, this is going to sound really odd, but... um, would you mind if I tried talking to it?”

“Talking to it?” Severus looked back at the boy and asked incredulously.

“Parselmouth, remember?”

“It seems impossible that one could forget that bit of trivia,” Severus snorted. The boy's second year seemed ages in the past at this point. “but it seems I did.”

“Well, Sir, seeing as how all it's ever gotten me was treated like a leper for most of a year, I don't bring it up often.” The boy gave a wry little laugh and smirked, and for a moment Severus felt like he was conversing with one of his snakes rather than a golden lion.

“Very well, Potter, you may attempt to speak with it, but if I tell you to stop you will do so immediately and without argument. Understood?” Severus was rather curious to see what would happen. When the Dark Lord gave him the Mark, part of the ritual was conducted in Parseltongue. The Mark did move, but it remained to be seen whether or not it was imbued with any sentience.

“May I?” Harry queried, gesturing to the Potion Master's arm. Severus nodded his acquiescence but was very surprised when the young man took his hand before leaning further forward over his arm. With his other hand Harry stroked one finger over the serpent with deliberate care. If he hadn't been bound Severus might have jumped when the boy began to speak with the Mark in silky low hisses. As it was he couldn't suppress a slight shiver. When the Dark Lord spoke Parseltongue, it sounded harsh, dark and ominous, but when Harry spoke it was... Severus wasn't sure what it was exactly, but the word sensual did come to mind. He felt himself quicken despite the pain and was thankful in his thrashings he hadn't dislodged his blankets.

The snake wriggled as if startled and then hissed back, almost too quiet to hear. Harry raised an eyebrow and hissed back. This time when the snake answered he looked up at his teacher with confusion etched prominently in his features.

“It says I taste of its master.” It was clear the young man wanted his opinion.

“Taste?”

“Snakes see and express things a lot differently than people do. Voldemort gave me this scar, and Professor Dumbledore thinks he gave me the Parseltongue ability. So maybe it means like my magical signature.” Harry scrunched up his nose and looked back at the Mark. “Or maybe it's because Voldemort took my blood to resurrect himself. What do you think, Sir?”

 _So Potter does have a brain concealed under that shaggy mop of his. I'll be damned._  Harry did have a valid point. Either of those things were possible explanations of the snake's statement. It could mean either or both, but did it actually matter either way? Severus hadn't a clue.

“You may be right. Without further information I cannot be sure.” Severus watched as the boy went back to hissing at his Mark and again had to clamp down on the urge to shiver. The spy could have laughed. What he wouldn't give to hear those sounds in his bedroom if he weren't in pain and the person in possession of that voice wasn't his young student. Severus blinked and forced those thoughts from his head.  _Now is definitely not the time, Severus._

The snake wriggled and hissed again and Potter leaned back glaring down at the Mark. Then he placed one finger over the serpent's head and hissed again. Severus felt a strange tingle of magic from the boy a moment before the pain ceased to radiate from the Mark. His arm was still sore, of course, but there was no fresh influx of pain. It was just gone.

“Potter, what did you do?” Snape demanded, eyes wide in astonishment.

“I asked it to leave, but it said it couldn't. Not without the power phrase. Obviously we don't have that. So I thought, this Mark connects to Voldemort sort of like my scar does. Dreamless Sleep potion can dampen my visions from him. You can't take Dreamless Sleep all day every day, but I thought, what if I could just put the snake to sleep. So I did.” The young man met his gaze directly and offered a little grin, pleased with his accomplishment.

“How did you put it to sleep?” It seemed too simple to work, but the lack of pain was proof of the results. That and the fact the snake was now motionless as it had been before the Dark Lord's resurrection.

“You know that sleeping charm Madame Pomfrey uses when she can't use a potion? Dormio? Yeah, I hit it with that but in Parseltongue. I don't know that it has to be in Parseltongue, per say, but since I was already speaking it I cast in it as well.” The boy smiled at him, bright, clear, and generous. Something fluttered in Severus' chest. Then he realized Harry was still holding his hand. If he hadn't been bound he would have jerked away, but he was, so he couldn't. The Potions Master willed himself to not blush.

“Just Dormio, nothing else?”

“Yep. Do you know how long it usually lasts, Sir?”

“Generally you can expect it to keep a patient in deep slumber for around eight hours. In this case, we can not be sure. A magical construct is not a person.” Severus found himself wanting to answer Harry's smile in kind.  _Damn the boy for being so damned likeable._  Severus wished he could think the brat insufferable again, if only to alleviate his discomfort at being in such close proximity.

Harry was powerful, kind, and growing to be quite handsome. He was also proving himself to be far more intelligent than Severus had ever given him credit for. Not a good combination if the stirrings the Potions Master felt within himself were any indication. Not good at all. If only Harry would let go of his hand, or at least look away. But he kept holding on, and gazing at him so benignly. Like Albus, but different. So damnably different.  _So much like Lily._  Severus froze as the thought surfaced.

 _Damn. Damn. Damn. Albus did warn you, you fool. Don't act surprised now that he's exactly as you've been told._  Severus realized all his interactions with the young man at his side had been tainted and tinted by lies. What was worse, they were lies he told himself. He and he alone had instigated the antipathy between them, and without him flinging insults left and right causing Harry to go on the defensive, the young man's true personality was finally revealed. Like Lily. Like his very best friend, lost to him these many years. Like Lily, yet different, because Harry's personality was more steadfast. Less mercurial. When he thought back to the way the boy interacted with his closest friends, he realized the boy was more loyal than Lily had been as well. How many times had the Weasley brat broken Potter's trust only to be later forgiven and welcomed back as if their relationship hadn't been fractured over some petty nonsense.

“Well,” Harry began, finally releasing his teacher's hand and leaning carefully back in his chair, nonchalant, as if it wasn't bizarre to be holding the hand of a man who had taunted and belittled him for years. “Hopefully it'll last at least that long, and that it doesn't need renewed in Parseltongue. But, if it does, just let me know, Professor, and I'll be happy to reapply it for you.”

“I will let you know if it becomes necessary, and... thank you, Mr. Potter.” One corner of Severus' mouth quirked up quite against his will. Harry's sweet answering smile made his chest feel queerly tight. He forced his face blank and raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been able to perform magic without a wand?”

“Oh, pretty much always, more or less. Small things at least.” Harry shrugged and winced. In helping his Professor he had almost forgotten his own injuries.

“Potter, you really shouldn't be up at this point. Go lay down and we can continue this conversation later.” Severus said, exasperated with himself and the boy. He had forgotten Harry was injured as well.

“Yes, Sir.” The boy smiled and slowly gained his feet, swaying. After taking a moment to get his balance he began the process of shuffling around the bed to exit the room.

“Potter, you imbecile! You will fall down the stairs in your condition.” Severus huffed. Before he could censor himself he blurted, “Just lie down here on the bed for now. The Headmaster can help you downstairs when he returns.”  _Merlin, did I really just say that?_  The boy raised both eyebrows and looked at him with a gobsmacked expression.  _Yes, apparently I did._

“Umm... okay, Sir. If you're sure?”

“Yes, Potter. Get in before you collapse where you stand.” Severus barked.  _Oh well done, Severus. He gives you an easy out and look what you did._

Harry crawled into bed and lowered himself onto his belly at Severus' side. The slow movements were due to the young man's injuries, but it had looked beyond seductive, even with the sheet he had ridiculously wrapped around himself. The boy came to rest with his head on the pillow facing his professor and gave the man yet another soft smile.

“Thanks, Sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Potter.” Snape ground out. The boy closed his eyes and was soon asleep, leaving the older man to his thoughts.  _Damn. Should have asked him to try a wandless Finite._  Severus snorted, but thankfully the sound didn't disturb his bed-mate. The boy... young man. With all he had been through and accomplished he deserved to be acknowledged as a man. The young man looked angelic in his sleep; messy hair, lash marks, makeshift toga and all. He could have tumbled out of a Botticelli painting, or perhaps the work of some other Renaissance master. His face, the shape of his young limbs, the way his lips were parted, his tousled locks; he did look rather like a fallen angel.  _Fallen or debauched._

In that moment the spy was grateful for the binding spell holding him. If it hadn't been in place he would have been severely tempted to trace the boy's lips with the pad of his thumb, or run his long potion stained fingers through Harry's hair. It looked so soft against the crisp white sheets as to be spun silk or fine sable. Severus closed his eyes and turned his head away. It was not like him to become so easily enamored. This was a boy. A boy he had despised for years. Potter's son! One evening of shared pain and tenderness did not erase what had gone before, nor change the fact that Harry was still a student. His student. Could not. Ever. He was in a compromised state thanks to the Dark Lord's torture, and susceptible to unchecked inappropriate emotions amplified by his long years of self-imposed celibacy. Nothing more. Harry was a far better person than he had believed. That was evident, but it didn't mean he was attracted to him. Severus sighed.  _Things will look better in the morning._  Severus fell asleep trying to not think about Harry's smile and the feel of his soft glorious skin, still beautiful even marred by the lash of a whip. He never succeeded.

In his dream, Harry lay next to him in his bed at Hogwarts propped up on one elbow, once more bestowing a soft warm smile filled with promise. On his face was an expression so filled with love that it made Severus almost ache. Never had anyone looked at him like that.

“Severus, may I touch you?” The young man's voice was husky, laden with want. Severus trembled.

“If you wish, you may.” he managed to reply. Voice smooth but not quite steady. Harry's fingers trailed down his cheek and then traced his jaw.

“So soft, Severus.” he murmured. “May I kiss you, too?” Severus could only nod, entranced by his partner's jewel bright eyes.

The lips that pressed against his own burned him so sweetly, stoking his passion. His eyes closed of their own volition. He let the boy lead, enjoying the serpentine dance Harry's tongue did around his own when he allowed his lips to part and gave him access. Severus cupped the back of his young lover's head and marveled that the hair in which his fingers nestled was even softer than he had imagined. When Harry broke the kiss, Severus moaned.

“Harry,” he breathed, eyes still closed as he savored the tingling pleasure the kiss had wrought in his body. “I need you. I want you.”

“I know, Snivellus, but what makes you think you could ever have me?”

The words struck him, hard and cruel, in a cold tone so unlike the one Harry had used before. His eyes snapped open to reveal the sneering face of James Potter. Expression hateful, hazel eyes instead of green filled with loathing.

“No one could ever want you, you greasy miserable tosser!”

Severus jerked awake with a gasp, heart pounding. His turned his head almost afraid James would be there, ready to taunt him again, but he wasn't. It was only Harry. Sweet, gentle Harry, who, upon closer inspection, didn't look quite as much like his father as Severus had once supposed. Being within inches of the boy it became clear most of the resemblance people remarked upon came from the glasses and similar messy hair. Even that messy hair wasn't quite identical. Harry's was several shades darker, and the messiness came in the form of riotous waves instead of unruly spikes. Harry's face wasn't nearly so angular either. There was a vague sort of androgyny present that James' face had lacked. James had been handsome in a rugged sense, but Harry... Harry was beautiful.

Severus caught himself reaching out to touch the sleeping boy's face, as if to reassure himself that Harry was real. The binding spell had worn off. He drew back his hand and eased into a seated position. He felt sore all over, not unlike the mornings after suffering the Cruciatus curse. He would live. He looked down at his forearm and was pleased to see the blisters and self-inflicted scratches were nearly healed. He allowed himself a rare true smile and turned back to look at the sleeping Gryffindor once more.  _Thank you, Harry._  The smile immediately faded. If he didn't regain control of himself he was going to do something that would land him in a great deal of trouble and possibly lose him his job when he needed the sanctuary of Hogwarts more than ever. Not to mention embarrass himself. The horrible dream did well to remind him of that, changed feelings for the young man or not, Harry would never want him. Could not and should not. They could develop a better working relationship, to be sure, and maybe even one day he could call Potter a friend. That would be the extent of it.  _As it should be. Lend yourself not to emotional avarice._

Severus sighed and forced himself to rise. He would ready himself for the day ahead, then go dig Albus out of the library and inform his mentor of Harry's breakthrough with the Mark. Albus would be pleased with that, and it would certainly help until a more permanent solution could be discovered. Resolution firmly in mind, Severus gathered his robes, hit them with a freshening charm, and headed for the shower.


	3. Those Left Behind

_Satuday, May 3rd_

 

Ron Weasley was many things; overshadowed sixth son of an impoverished line, chess master, mediocre student, sidekick, and often the very embodiment of jealousy. Yes, he was many things, not all of them positive, but he was also a loyal friend. He had slipped off that path a time or two, true enough, but he had his head on straight these days. He had been forced to witness his best friend's public humiliation and torture. He watched all the adults he'd come to rely upon utterly fail to protect that friend. Playtime was over. Ron Weasley was forced to grow up, and growing up meant facing facts.

Being The-Boy-Who-Lived wasn't all fame, and galleons, and fun. It wasn't all adulation and exciting adventures. Being The-Boy-Who-Lived meant unfair expectations from an ungrateful public. It meant pain and persecution. It meant facing things no teenager should ever have to face. It meant growing up unloved because his parents had been murdered the night he became famous. Ron Weasley wasn't a hero like his best friend, and it had finally dawned on the admittedly sometimes thick young man that he wouldn't like being The-Boy-Who-Lived any more than Harry did.

In the screaming chaos following Harry and Snape's abrupt exit from the Great Hall, the remaining Heads of House quickly dispatched the prefects to escort everyone back to the dorms before Umbridge could calm herself enough to notice. The horrible toad of a woman was still jumping up and down and shouting at the Aurors, basically frothing at the mouth and throwing an epic tanty when the students hurried from the room. No one wanted her to turn her ire from the Ministry lackeys and focus her vicious attention on them instead. Harry might be strong enough to withstand her brand of discipline, but no one else wanted to test their mettle under similar circumstances.

Snape had Harry. That worried the young redhead. Snape wasn't a Harry Potter fan, and wasn't a nice man. However, the worst Snape had ever done was fling cutting insults, take points, and assign detention. Dumbledore trusted Snape, and the greasy git had saved Harry's life a time or two. Ron didn't like the man, but had to admit his best mate was better off with the surly Slytherin, wherever they might be, than at Hogwarts under Umbridge's brutal thumb.

Harry was beyond the toad's reach, and that was good, but it also meant that Harry was beyond the reach of his friends as well. Knowing the dark haired boy as he did, Ron knew Harry would be worrying about his friends just as much as they were worrying about him. Or he would be once he'd recovered from his injuries. He and Hermione could look after themselves. They would make sure to keep their heads down and not give Umbridge any excuse to come after them. Most of the other Gryffindors would be alright as well. They might have to keep a close watch on Neville, but Ron doubted the shy plant loving boy would be of interest to the acting Headmistress. He and Harry weren't close.

The people Harry cared about would be alright. So, strategically thinking, if the bitch couldn't get to Harry through his friends, how would she proceed? His reputation was already in tatters thanks to Skeeter's poisoned pen, so she needn't do anything there. She couldn't touch his trust fund. From what he'd heard the Goblins absolutely loathed the woman, so trying to hurt him financially was definitely out. Harry didn't care much about money anyway. Harry wasn't much into material possessions either, but he did have some things that meant a lot to him. His cloak handed down from his father, his photograph album, the Marauders Map, maybe some of the little keepsakes he'd gotten as gifts from his friends. Harry would hate to lose those things. And Hedwig. If anything happened to his owl Harry would be inconsolable.

Ron allowed a small smile to bloom on his face as he made his way up the stairs to the fifth year boys' dorm, not even stopping when he heard Hermione call out to him. He couldn't do much, but he could do this for his best mate. Ron Weasley was a man on a mission.

In the wee hours, Ronald tucked Harry's shrunken school trunk into his pocket, draped himself in Harry's invisibility cloak, and slipped silently down the stairs into the common room. The room with its familiar comforts was bathed in silvery moonlight, and though the hearth-fire had long since burnt out, Ron could see well enough to navigate.  _Alright, Ron. Here's your first real solo adventure. Don't bollocks it up, yeah? Make it count._

The lanky youth crossed the room in his usual loping stride and was about to push open the portrait door leading from the tower into the castle proper when he was startled by the sound of a clearing throat.

“Ronald Weasley,” a fierce voice whispered, “just where do you think you're going?”

Hermione sat, still dressed in her rumpled robes from the previous evening, shadowed in an armchair by the cold hearth, glaring in his direction. She was tapping her fingers on the arms of the chair in irritation – never a good sign.

Ron gulped and slid the cloak from his head. “'lo Mione.”

“Honestly.” the girl huffed and stood. “What can you be thinking of? First you ignored me, and now you're sneaking out.” Hermione strode over to the young redhead and shook her head in exasperation. “I knew you were up to something, but surely you must realize what a bad idea this is. Umbridge would love nothing better than to catch one of us out of bounds after last night. You're too tall to go prowling the halls like Harry does. I can see your feet and ankles.”

Ron could have growled in frustration, wishing she could see that he wasn't goofing around. He almost lost control of his temper until he really looked at the girl; noticing the state of her usually immaculate robes and puffy eyes. She'd been sitting up all night, probably crying. The youngest Weasley son felt a twinge of guilt for getting caught up in his planning and ignoring her when she was so obviously distraught over all that had happened. He took a deep breath and attempted to order his thoughts before answering.

“Look, Mione, this isn't just a lark, alright? I'm not going to raid the kitchen, I'm sending Harry's things off with Hedwig so the toad can't get her hands on any of it.” Ron sighed and then dug their friend's trunk out of his pocket as proof. “See?”

Hermione traced the miniature trunk with a finger before looking up at him and offering a weak smile.

“Your plan isn't completely without merit, Ronald, but what about the walk back?”

Ron gave her a blank look. “What about it?”

“You weren't going to keep Harry's cloak for yourself, were you?”

“What? No! I was going to put it in the trunk once I got to the owlery. I wouldn't steal from Harry!” Ron nearly shouted in indignation.

“Shh, keep your voice down. I never thought you would, Ron. But, once you send Hedwig to Harry you are going to have to walk back here. Without the cloak. There is a very good chance you'll be caught, Ron, and this isn't our scheduled night to patrol so you'll have no legitimate excuse to be out.” Hermione laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Can you imagine what Umbridge would do if she caught you coming back from the owlery at this time of night? It will look exceedingly suspicious to her. After what happened to Harry I couldn't stand for you to be hurt by her as well.”

Ron had only a moment to notice that his friend's puffy red eyes were glimmering with fresh tears before he found himself with an armful of bushy-haired crying witch. To say he was flummoxed would be an understatement. He stood frozen as she clung to him, not knowing how to react. Then he thought of his dad and how he handled Ron's mum when she was upset. He clasped one arm loosely around her narrow waist and then alternated patting and rubbing her back – albeit awkwardly – and made soft shushing noises that he hoped would soothe her.

“It'll be alright, Hermione. It'll be alright. Please don't cry.” he murmured, and was chagrined when it seemed to prompt her to cry more instead of less.  _Bloody hell! Girls are too confusing!_  “I'll be really careful, I promise.”

“But, Ron-”

“No, Hermione.” Ron interrupted, voice firm. “This needs done. I don't trust that cow at all, and if this is the only way I can help Harry right now, well, I'm going to do it.”

Ron let go of his friend and took a step back, hoping she would understand. He had let Harry down too many times already. He needed to do this. The young woman sniffled and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief retrieved from the sleeve of her robe. Finally she squared her shoulders and looked up.

“Okay. But we're doing this together.”

“Hermione-”

“No, Ron. Harry is my friend, and I want to help him, but so are you. If you get caught, I get caught.”

Ron was going to argue but could see that steely Granger glint in her eye, the one that usually appeared when she was girding herself for exams, the one that allowed her indomitable spirit shine through. There would be no talking her out of joining him.

“Besides, if I'm along it won't look as suspicious.”

“How do you figure that?” Ron looked at the girl and wondered if the trauma from the previous evening had made her go loopy. “If she thinks it's suspicious that I'm out won't that go double if she catches us both?”

“Boys and girls are caught out together all the time. There's nothing less suspicious.”

“Huh?”

Hermione crossed her arms, raised an eyebrow, and waited for understanding to set in. It didn't take long for the young man's face to turn red as his hair.

“Hermione!”

“Oh honestly, Ronald. More points are lost by all four Houses due to couples out after curfew than for any other reason.” Hermione huffed, tossed her hair, and headed for the portrait.

“But people'll think we've been snoggin'!” he managed to force out in a strangled whimper.

“That's the point!” she answered, tapping her foot as she waited by the door. “If they think we've been investigating the astronomy tower they won't think we've been up to anything nefarious.” Hermione gestured for Ron to join her, impatient to begin. “In this instance having everyone believe we are typical teenagers actually works in our favor. Now bring the cloak and hurry up. And don't forget to crouch when you walk so your feet don't show.”

The castle was silent as the pair shuffled down corridors and up stairs making the sound of their combined breathing under the heirloom cloak seem amplified to an unnatural degree. When the stillness was disturbed, either by the scrabbling of mice or the pouncing of felines on the hunt, Ron had to struggle to subdue the reflexive jump his body was inclined to engage in when startled.

It was different sneaking about with Hermione. With Harry – there was no other way to describe the sensation – he felt safe. Though they were roughly the same age, Harry had an aura of power and experience about him that put one at ease. With Hermione he felt like a kid on his first dare to brave the Shrieking Shack. He didn't like it. What's more he wasn't sure he liked the strange feeling that bubbled up inside him when Hermione's hair tickled his chin and he caught the scent of her shampoo either. It certainly wasn't doing his frayed nerves any favors. He needed to focus on their mission and not the smell of apple blossoms in sunshine after the rain, or how Hermione's hair was even softer than it looked, and he most definitely didn't need to be thinking of the way sun shining behind Hermione's hair set it alight and made it look like her head was surrounded by an amber halo.

The gangly Gryffindor was so busy enumerating the things he shouldn't be thinking about that he almost tripped over the object of his contemplation when she stopped short in front of him.

“Careful, Ron. Look!” she hissed.

And he did. Ahead at the junction he observed the passage of two wizards who, under normal circumstances, really shouldn't be at Hogwarts in the middle of the night, but there was no mistaking the lime green bowler hat worn by the shorter of the pair, nor the sleek long blonde hair of his tall companion.

“Fudge and Malfoy! What are they doing here?” Ron hissed back. “Do you think it's about Harry?”

Hermione grasped his sweaty hand and tugged. “Let's find out.”

Ron could only grin. He and Harry really had been a bad influence on the girl. Course altered, they trailed at a distance two of the most odious men either of them had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

It didn't take long for the intrepid students to figure out the wizards were heading for Umbridge's office by the Defense classroom; everyone knew Umbridge was in Fudge's pocket as surely as the incompetent Minister was in Malfoy's. Ron wondered just who came up with the idea to punish Harry with a public whipping.  _Had to be either Umbridge of Malfoy. Fudge is more stupid than sadistic. The git had to be in on it though, else the Aurors wouldn't have been here._

The door to Umbridge's office was open when the wizards arrived and bright light spilled from within to pool on the floor. They entered and closed the door behind them. Dwelling in such an ancient castle had its drawbacks. Only the living areas and lavatories had seen the installation of modern amenities, the thick stone walls and floors were uninsulated and reminded frigid even in spring, and the whole building was drafty no matter what the season. For eavesdroppers, however, it was a paradise, and Ron and Hermione were easily able to listen at the gap between door and wall because none of the office's occupants thought to cast an Imperturbable charm.

“Thank you for coming, Cornelius, Lucius. I know how busy you are, but I wouldn't send for you if it were not of the utmost importance.” Umbridge began to babble almost as soon as the door was shut, her voice as girlish and grating as ever.

“If this is about the Potter boy, Dolores, I've already reviewed the Auror reports.” Fudge replied with a sigh. “It's galling that the boy managed to escape, but I don't know what else can be done other than insuring a press blackout and preemptive damage control.”

“But what about that horrible Snape? I thought you said he could be trusted to support me when it came to Potter, Lucius.” the woman whined.

“I am quite disappointed in Severus, to be sure, Madame. I was under the impression his opinion of the Mr. Potter was similar to our own. However, in many ways Severus Snape has done us a favor by absconding with the troublesome brat.” Malfoy sounded amused.

“But, Lucius-”

“Cornelius, my friend, worry not. We have been afforded a golden opportunity. In fact, this may be better for our long term goals than simply bringing the young man to heel.”

“How?” Umbridge simpered, causing the two eavesdroppers to shudder in distaste.

“Why, it's quite simple, Madame. Mr. Potter has left Hogwarts.” As the oily blonde paused for effect both Gryffindors could easily imagine the man fiddling with his cane with feigned nonchalance as he drew out the suspense for his audience.

“And...” Fudge prompted, easily drawn in by Malfoy's theatrics.

“He has not completed his OWLS.” The man had to be smirking. “If Mr. Potter doesn't complete his OWLS he faces mandatory expulsion, and if the brat is expelled... well, his wand will be snapped and he will not qualify for any position of any importance within the wizarding world. In other words, Harry Potter will be legally rendered as politically powerless as a squib. With the tenacious Ms. Skeeter's continued assistance the boy will remain a figure of derision and squandered potential.”

“Lucius, that's brilliant!” Fudge crowed in delight and clapped his hands like a delighted child. “No one will ever take the lad seriously again!”

“And the students?” Umbridge asked breathlessly.

“Hardly worth contemplating. I imagine they will prove far more biddable with their idol deposed. Without the constant distraction of Potter's rumor-mongering and Dumbledore filling their heads with nonsense they will soon learn to conform to proper standards.”

Ron had heard enough. He grasped Hermione's hand and pulled her away from the door and back toward the familiar path to the owlery. The longer they lingered the more likely they were to be caught, and he was too angry at the gits to remain silent much longer. Umbridge was in Fudge's pocket, and Fudge was in Malfoy's, but Malfoy was in Voldemort's, which meant... Ron didn't even want to think about what that meant.

Comparatively, the rest of their journey to the owlery was uneventful. They had a bad moment when Mrs. Norris came sniffing around, but were able to elude her and her hateful master. If nothing else, that was something Ron had learned and learned well since coming to Hogwarts. It was an essential survival skill really.

The great western tower that housed the school owls was quite chilly, even for a May night, and they both shivered while Ron rummaged in Harry's trunk for a quill and parchment and cursed himself for a lack of forethought.  _Should've written a note earlier. Oh well, I'd have to add the bit about Fudge and Malfoy anyway, the scheming gits._

“Hurry, Ron.” Hermione fretted while keeping watch by the entrance.

“Hold your hippogriffs, Hermione. I'm working on it. Just be ready to throw the cloak over us and the trunk if anyone comes.” the rangy youth muttered. Digging through Harry's belongings Ron vowed to clean and straighten his own trunk in the near future. It was amazing how messy they became during the term. A scrap of parchment was located easily enough, but he only unearthed a working self-inking quill after excavating through what looked like several years worth of old essays and empty chocolate frog boxes.  _Doesn't he ever throw anything away?_

Ron settled back on his heels and lowered the trunk lid to provide a writing surface free of owl droppings and began to write. The sound of the quill scratching furiously at the parchment unsettled the owls and more than one of the avian messengers raked the boy with a gimlet gaze. Hedwig, perhaps sensing the mood of her fellows, perhaps knowing the letter was to be her burden, took wing from her place high in the rafters and fluttered down to rest on the shoulder of the human who was her boy's companion. Ron didn't pause in his writing, but did reach up with his free hand to reward her with stroke to her feathered breast.

“Good girl.”

_Harry,_

_Wanted to save your stuff from old Toad Face, so figured Hedwig could get it to you. Everything is crazy here, but we're okay. Hermione's really worried, and I am too. I hope wherever you are Snape isn't being a git. I can't believe I'm saying this, but he's got to be better than Umbridge. Fudge and Mr. Malfoy visited Umbridge just a little bit ago. Me and Hermione were able to listen in. Mr. Malfoy says that since you left before taking your OWLS you can be expelled. Then you can't come back and they can snap your wand. I know that sounds horrible but I think you're better off not being here right now. Next time they might do worse to you. Look at it like chess. We have to think several moves ahead or we'll lose for sure. Right now they can't get to you. Anyway, if you need to get in touch with me write to my folks and have them send a message. I don't think it's safe for you to write to me directly, and Hedwig is too noticeable. Get better and stay safe. That's what matters right now. I gotta go. Hermione is keeping watch and sending me her hurry up glares. Take care and hopefully I'll see you soon._

_Your friend,  
Ron_

_PS) You need to clean your trunk out, mate, seriously. It's a bigger mess than Fred and George's room._

Ron blew across the parchment to speed the ink dry and gave the missive a once over. It wasn't Shakespeare, but it would have to do.

“Okay, Hermione, give me the cloak.”

Once everything was packed away, and the trunk shrunk and lightened for travel, Hermione took a length of twine from the dispenser mounted by the door and used Ron's note to wrap Harry's luggage up like a gift parcel before handing it back to her friend to be affixed to Hedwig's legs.

The girl smiled and spoke softly while scratching the Snowy owl's head with affection. “This is your most important delivery yet, Hedwig. Take this package directly to Harry, girl. Don't stop for anything, and don't let anyone have the package but him.”

With a hoot of affirmation Hedwig rose aloft and soared out of the owlery and into the night sky. The two students watched her progress for a moment before sharing a smile.

“Well, that's done then.” Ron couldn't stop grinning, overjoyed that their mission had been a success. And they'd done it without Harry leading them. He felt ten feet tall and invincible.

Hermione shook her head in fond exasperation. “Oh, Ronald... let's get back to Gryffindor. I don't think I can take any more excitement tonight.”

“Yeah, I'm knackered. Sooner to bed, the sooner breakfast gets here.”

“You and that famous Weasley stomach. Is food all you think about?”

“Of course not.” Ron scoffed. “I think about Quidditch at least half the time!”

The friends were quiet and cautious on their return trek through the castle. As far as they knew Umbridge was still awake and Fudge and Malfoy senior were still on campus. It wouldn't do to run into any of them. They did well, darting from shadow to shadow, forcing themselves to not jump at every little sound. Years of aiding Harry on his various quests served them well. They almost made it.

Three corridors from the Fat Lady's portrait they heard footsteps coming up a rarely used staircase that led down to storage rooms on the floor below. Hermione froze. Ron felt as though someone had dumped ice water down his back. He grabbed Hermione's hand and started to run, refusing to admit defeat. Then he heard another set of foot steps, this time coming from the opposite direction.  _Caught! We're caught!_  The redhead, nearly consumed by panic, wheeled in place looking for any avenue of escape, mind racing in feverish pursuit of a plan.  _There! That's it!_

Ron grasped Hermione by the shoulders and maneuvered her back into an alcove that held a statue of a bard strumming his lute, and pressed her against the wall. The girl, body thrumming with adrenaline, could only stare up at her tall friend in wide-eyed shock when his hands released her shoulders and plunged into her hair. She heard him whisper something that sounded vaguely apologetic and then his lips descended upon her own in a wet messy kiss. For a first kiss it was all wrong, but also terribly right. She tasted peppermint and chocolate and for a moment thought of Christmas, then fire careened through her veins and she could think of nothing at all.


	4. When Darkness Stirs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It gets pretty dark and twisted in this chapter, folks. There is torture, humiliation, explicit sex, and a snake doing things no self-respecting reptile should do. Consider yourself warned.

_Satuday, May 3rd_

He was brooding. He was brooding as befitted his status as Dark Lord. Dark Lords may be melancholic, wrathful, manipulative, or mad. They hold themselves in aloof contemplation or torture their minions in a fit of rage, but they never do anything so childish as sulk or pout. Really. He was brooding and no one would say otherwise. Despite the way he sat upon his throne with his shoulders hunched, despite the way his bottom lip protruded as he scowled at the ruined walls of the empty room, he was not sulking and he most definitely wasn't pouting. Anyone who said otherwise would find themselves writhing under a Cruciatus so fast it would make their head spin.

The fact of the matter was it simply wasn't  _fair_! Severus was  _his_! His Potions Master. His brilliant spellcrafter. He was supposed to remain loyal! Had Voldemort not gifted him with the greatest state of the art laboratory in which to brew? Hadn't he showered him in rare ingredients and even rarer Dark Arts texts? Was Severus not honored above all his Death Eaters, including Bellatrix and Lucius? And now this betrayal. For what? For a scrawny little nothing with more luck than talent or brains. For  _Potter_!

He really had thought the man was better than that. In Severus he had seen a sympathetic soul, one who truly appreciated the magnificence of what he was trying to accomplish. He had taken Severus under his wing when he was barely more than a boy. He alone had recognized and admired the young man's blossoming talent. He had nurtured the miserable youth and guided him toward a bright future in his regime. Severus could have been great.

He was disgusted. Now, not only would have have to attain a new Potions Master, but he'd lost Macnair as well. He used the man's Dark Mark as a conduit in an attempt to torture and destroy the bloody traitor and drove the man mad in the process. That shouldn't have happened, but something had protected Severus in the end. Something had shut down the connection, and before he could react, the power he was sending through Macnair somehow overwhelmed his core and destroyed his mind. Walden was rendered a drooling, gibbering squib.

Before his rage could completely overwhelm his common sense the Dark Lord ordered Pettigrew to dispose of the man and sent the rest of his followers away. He knew only too well how easy it would be to torture more of them into useless wrecks if they were to stay, and he could ill afford the waste.

Severus. The man would suffer before the end. He would rue his betrayal. Oh yes. Voldemort would see him humbled. Perhaps he would allow the man to live, for a time. He would be humiliated. Severus was nothing if not proud. He would be made to crawl. He would lick the boots of his Master and do so gratefully. He would be made to beg. He would watch as the great Lord Voldemort crushed Dumbledore and Potter under his feet. He would see everything he cared about ground to dust. And once he was brought low, once he was reduced to a cringing, cowering shell of his former self, then, and only then, would he be allowed to die. Slowly. No swift Avada Kedavra for him. For him, and him alone, Voldemort would revive some of the more admirable muggle methods of yesteryear.

Voldemort, pale and reptilian, straightened in his seat. His shoulders relaxed, and his thin lips stretched in the parody of a smile as he allowed his mind to conjure images of the myriad ways in which a man might be killed, and the ways in which a wizard might prolong the process. The Dark Arts were wonderful for such efforts. Why, a man might be made to live through just about anything so long as his brain and heart remained untouched. With the right application of potions and spells Severus might last days before he finally expired. And Voldemort would ensure the rest of his Death Eaters were present until the very last moment so they might learn to appreciate just how important loyalty and devotion to their Lord truly was.

He would host a banquet in the Great Hall at Hogwarts for the spectacle, and the students would be required to attend. A proper introduction to their ruler would be in order after all, and Voldemort could think of no better way of greeting his new young subjects. Education was important, and he was eager to take a direct hand in teaching a new generation of magical youth. What better lesson could he impart?

Voldemort stood and made his way from the room. He had plans to make. He was tired of waiting. No more excuses would be accepted. He would claim the prophecy for himself, Boy-Who-Lived be damned. The plot he labored over this past year was too convoluted. Too drawn out. The longer he took the longer Dumbledore had to mount a defense. The time to strike was now while the opposition was weak, and if one wanted something done right, it was better to do it oneself.

What good did midnight raids on unimportant muggles and their misbegotten magical offspring actually do in the long run? The attacks weren't even being reported in the papers, so as a tactic to instill fear in the public it was futile. The cockroaches of the wizarding world could be exterminated later, once he solidified his base of power. It would be easier to manage when he commanded all the resources of the Ministry's bureaucracy anyway. It was better to focus on his more urgent needs at present.

It was late, well past midnight. The janitorial staff would be gone. The building would be nearly deserted, a skeleton crew of Aurors would be on hand in the DMLE, but that was all and it was likely the majority of them would be asleep at their desks. Voldemort felt a thrill akin to what he experienced as a boy at Hogwarts slipping out of the dorm after curfew for an illicit stroll through the restricted section of the library. His rictus grin became more natural and he quickened his pace, buoyed by a latent streak of mischievousness he'd almost forgotten he possessed. He would slip in and out of the Department of Mysteries before anyone was the wiser, though he cast a few heavy glamours over himself just to be safe. Any who beheld him would think themselves looking upon the visage of Walden Macnair. Polyjuice would likely be a better option, but without  _Severus_  – Voldemort's entire body thrummed with rage just thinking of the duplicitous Potions Master – the glamours would have to suffice.

Darkness and cool air caressed him when he exited the crumbling ruins of his father's home. Above the whispering wind he heard the telltale rustling of scales over grass and looked down at his serpentine familiar.

“Nagini, ssstay. I Ssshall return sssoon.” he commanded, then leaned down and slid his hand affectionately over a portion of her sinuous body.

“Yesss, Massster.”

He moved fleet-footed down the path leading into Little Hangleton, reveling in the speed and vitality imbued in his new body. Whether the enhancements came from Potter's impudent young blood or Nagini's potent venom was debatable, but he enjoyed the results nonetheless. Voldemort had always been strong, magically, but this new physical prowess pleased him greatly. A fitting form for the greatest Dark Lord since, and the heir of, Salazar Slytherin. His smooth, hairless, marble-white skin flowed flawlessly over lean muscle. Fanged teeth allowed him to intimidate with the least curl of his bloodless lips. And his eyes, oh his eyes – red and unnatural as they were – were like windows into Dante's phantasmagorical depiction of hell. He was an avatar of dark power, and it filled him with a feral sense of joy. The world would look at him in awe and tremble with fear.

Voldemort pushed aside his exaltation and forced his mind back to his immediate task. He would apparate once he passed the cemetery, then skip to multiple locations before arriving at the Ministry entrance. He was sure of his success, but would take no chances that his travel could be easily traced. His path of egress would be even more complicated to better confuse any who dared follow. He found inhabiting the muggle residence of his forefathers somewhat distasteful, but it wouldn't do to risk the sanctuary it offered. He might have need of it in future.

The ease with which he penetrated the Ministry was laughable. After giving Macnair's name in the phone booth that served as the entrance, a slight nod was all he need offer to the sleepy guard at the atrium. The fool never even asked to check his wand. Nagini's helpful scouting of the building months previous and his own distant memories of the place saw him arrive at his goal in minutes. Months of elaborate plotting, and here he was, less than an hour after shelving all that careful work and devising a new plan.

Once inside the Hall of Prophecy the magic linking him to the tangible record of his possible fate drew him unerringly to the very shelf upon which the glass orb rested.

S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D   
Dark Lord   
and (?) Harry Potter

Voldemort allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he wrapped his fingers around the small sphere. It was glass, smooth and fragile, but underneath the brittle surface he could feel the stirring of ancient magic. Prophecy. Fate in the palm of his hand. He resisted the urge to listen to it then and there like a greedy child ripping into his presents on Christmas morning. Haste at this juncture could be catastrophic. Instead, his slid his hand inside his robes and secreted the orb in a pocket resting over his heart, turned on his heel, and walked steadily out of the hall, out of the department, and then out of the Ministry altogether. The guard was sleeping at his post when Voldemort left, leaving none to mark his passage back into the night. It was as if he'd never been there at all.

Apparating back to Little Hangleton via Glasgow, Shropshire, Blackpool, and a tiny fishing village in Wales hardly left him winded, and soon Voldemort was back in his make-shift throne room with Nagini curled up at his feet as he reclined in his massive chair musing on the words of the prophecy.

It was far more straight forward than most prophecies he had studied, and simple to circumvent. He must kill the boy. That was nothing new. He had been intent on that outcome for years. The prophecy merely stated that only he could liquidate the brat and vice versa. Potter was his equal in power, yes. He had felt that equality the night of his resurrection. However, the boy was no equal in knowledge, skill, or experience. He need only dispose of the brat before he had time to acquire what he lacked. Perhaps easier said than done, but not impossible. The boy was not all that intelligent, nor was he very gifted.

He would make the boy's death swift, merciful even. Dumbledore could not stand against him. If the prophecy was correct the old man had no chance. He would be dealt with swiftly as well. He would give the opposition no bleeding martyrs to use as a rallying cry. He would like nothing more than to make them suffer, but... he could be practical. Severus, cunning little viper that he was, would be his grand statement. His work of dark artistry. A malignant masterpiece that would echo down the ages in warning to those who would defy him.

Voldemort couldn't help but close his murderous eyes and blissfully drift in the fantasies his mind conjured. There was so much he could do. There would be poetic irony in boiling the man in a cauldron of hot oil, especially if he soaked the bastard in ice water first to intensify the first burst of pain when his frigid flesh made contact with the heat. Snape's screams would be so piercingly sweet. Or perhaps he would crush the man's hands, slowly, starting with the tip of each finger. He could import some cobra eggs from the east and bury them in the man's guts and then charm the little snakes to hatch and burrow their way through Severus' body. Drawing and quartering. Impalement. Flay the skin from his treacherous flesh and hang him from a gibbet. Stretch him on the rack. Send to Germany for an iron maiden to embrace him. With care he could do it all and more. Yes!

Voldemort's eyes flew open and he looked down to where his hand was fondling his erection through his robes. This, at least, was a drawback of using the blood of a teenager in his resurrection ritual. It took so little to arouse him. How long had it been since he'd indulged in such base activities? Decades? Why wallow in the transitory pleasures of the flesh when dark magic brought so much more lasting satisfaction? But, by Salazar, he was so... well, randy, he supposed. He wanted sex and he wanted it now! Voldemort growled and launched himself from his seat sending Nagini slithering for cover.

“Wormtail!” he bellowed then commenced to pace before the fire. He was the Dark Lord. Why have minions if not to cater to your every whim? And right now he wanted to fuck. And dominate. And brutalize. And come, gods yes, that too. “Wormtail! Where is that sniveling little-”

“Yes, Master?” the rodent asked, scurrying into the room.

Voldemort sneered in disgust. That particular minion would not do. He was repulsive. He wouldn't touch Pettigrew with Dumbledore's dick. The Dark Lord paused, head tilted to the side.  _Where did that come from? Never mind._  He shook his head and beckoned the wretch to his side.

“Your arm.”

The chubby Death Eater cringed but rolled up his sleeve as he crossed the room. Voldemort jabbed his wand into the bared Dark Mark and concentrated on his desired follower. Pettigrew gritted his teeth and whimpered. Voldemort smirked and withdrew his wand.

“Send him to my private chambers when he arrives.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

Though the rest of the house was in shambles, Voldemort had seen to it that his living quarters were clean and comfortable. The plaster and wainscoting were repaired, the dust and accumulated grime swept away, new carpets covered the shining hardwood floor. The furniture was reupholstered in sumptuous velvets and brocades. And his bed, the massive bower, was like an ocean of silk. He lit a fire in the hearth with a flick of his wand and settled into the leather armchair positioned beside it to await his guest.

It was twenty minutes before there was a knock at his door. Voldemort just smiled. The man would pay for his untimeliness, and pay dearly.

“Enter.”

The wizard obeyed and closed the door firmly behind him before coming to kneel before his master, head bowed, face shadowed by a waterfall of platinum hair. Voldemort didn't acknowledge him immediately, instead taking the time to rake the man's body with a lustful gaze. This was much better. Lucius Malfoy, though forty-one, was still as supple and handsome as he had been before his Lord's fall. That he was entirely heterosexual was of little import. He would serve his purpose, and do so with eager flair if he knew what was good for him.

“Lucius,” the Dark Lord purred, “I have need of you.”

“Your wish is my command, My Lord.” the cultured voice of the Malfoy patriarch replied.

“Good. Rise, Lucius.”

The man stood, every movement testament to his fluid grace, and looked to his master with all due attentiveness. Yes, the years had been kind to the man. He was a wizard in his prime, and only the faintest lines forming at the corners of his storm gray eyes belied his age. He would do.

“Strip, Lucius.”

Malfoy froze. “My Lord?”

“Strip, Lucius.” Voldemort sneered. “Don't make me tell you again.”

“My Lord, I do not understand.”

“Crucio!”

Lucius collapsed to the ground in convulsions of pain. Voldemort held the curse for long seconds, smiling. Yes, this was good. Foreplay. Finally he lifted the curse and regarded the panting supine figure with mock concern.

“Do you understand now, Lucius?”

“Yes... My... Lord.” the blonde managed to gasp.

“Good. Now, stand and remove your clothing.”

With great effort Lucius rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his hands and knees, then, though shaking, gained his feet. He gave his master a single wary glance before beginning to fumble at his buttons. It took long minutes, and the man was flushed head to toe in embarrassment, but soon enough his clothing rested in a pile beside him.

Voldemort stood and closed the small gap between them. Cold thin fingered hands rose and traced over rosy muscular shoulders, and down twitching arms. “Very good, Lucius.” He tweaked a nipple and delighted in the resulting flinch. “Very good indeed.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” the man whispered, finally understanding just what his master required.

“I have need of you tonight, Lucius. But, understand this, you will incur no favors from me for use of your body. It bears my mark. It is already mine. When I want you I will take you, but you are not my lover.” Voldemort twisted the nipple he had been tracing throughout his recitation. Lucius hissed but otherwise gave no sign of his discomfort. “You are comely and you are convenient, nothing more. Do you understand, dear Lucius?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

The Death Eater shuddered as the Dark Lord's hand gripped his cock and began to roughly stroke his flacid length. He was too tense and horrified for the organ to respond and his face burned with humiliation.

“Do you not enjoy my touch, pet? Does it not incite your passion?” Voldemort mocked, twisting the flesh with deliberate cruelty.

“Ahh... sss-sorry, My Lord.”

“No matter. Excitandi!”

Lucius moaned as his sex rose to attention in the Dark Lord's fist and arousal flooded his body. Voldemort laughed, high and cold. Lucius pressed against him, hips thrusting, forcing his member to pump into his master's hand.

“Master.” the man panted, head thrown back, baring a column of pale unblemished throat begging to be marked.

Voldemort attacked the man's neck with abandon, biting, sucking, bringing forth blood which he lapped and savored like wine. It was perfect. It was almost too much. He released the man's cock and shoved him away. Lucius stumbled and fell on his backside, stunned, eyes glazed with lust.

The Dark Lord glowered down at his whore. He wanted more. Robes were shed with alacrity before he stalked closer to loom over the man.

“On your knees.”

The man scrambled to obey, cock bobbing, clear fluid leaking from the tip. That wouldn't do. Voldemort summoned his wand.

“Serpensortia.” he muttered, pointing at his palm. A snake coalesced from smoke, and though small, the bands of red, yellow, and black attested to its deadliness. He hissed at the serpent and then reached down to allow it to slither from his hand onto Malfoy's prick where it circled the base and squeezed.

Panic cleared the lust from Lucius' eyes and he looked up at his master with fear.

“We don't want this to end too soon, do we, Lucius? My little friend will ensure your compliance.” Voldemort petted Lucius on the head and buried his fingers in the wizard's long flowing hair. “She isn't strong enough to truly stave off your orgasm, Lucius. A coral snake isn't a constrictor, after all, but she is an excellent reminder for you, yes? Come before I allow you to and she will bite, Lucius, and she is deadly.”

Lucius swallowed hard and looked from his Lord to the snake and back again. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Good. Now,” Voldemort wrapped his hand in Malfoy's hair and tightened his grip, “suck.”

Lucius had been so preoccupied by the snake that he hadn't taken notice of his master's nudity before. His eyes widened. The man was as a marble statue, smooth and sculpted and weirdly beautiful, but at the same time repugnant in his unnaturalness. His endowment was long and slender, tapering from an oddly pointed tip to a thick base resting above tight oblong testicles which nestled close against the groin. The skin of the organ was shiny like the skin of a dolphin and tinged a shade of purple which darkened to the color of a ripe plum at the tip. It was like no penis Lucius had ever seen, and it was abhorrent.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed at his servant's reticence. “Crucio!”

Lucius thrashed in Voldemort's grasp, held up by his glorious mane. When his master released the curse he fell forward to lean against a hairless thigh, the subject of his contemplation resting against his cheek. It was as cold as the man who wielded it.

His master's hand wound tighter in his hair and he was forced to look up into Voldemort's face. “You would do well to not keep me waiting, Lucius.” The monster took his length in hand and pressed the tip to Malfoy's lips. “Fellate me, Lucius. Now! And mind your teeth.” the Dark Lord growled.

Lucius opened his mouth and at once it was filled with unfamiliar flesh. The sour taste and strange texture made him gag and choke. He kept his gorge from rising by pure will. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked as commanded, wishing he could sink back into the artificial arousal coursing through him, but between the turgid organ invading his mouth and the creeping feeling engendered by the snake coiled around his own cock, he remained hyper aware of the situation. He squeezed his eyes shut and worked his tongue over the offensive cock and prayed for his master to find completion soon.

Then the cock was pulled from his mouth with a pop. Lucius opened his eyes and looked up. Voldemort gave him a mocking smile. “For having such a silver tongue in your dealings with the Ministry I somehow expected more skill from you than that. It was barely adequate.” The Dark Lord released his minion's hair and stepped back, still hard, and tilted his head. “Your father was more talented by far, Lucius.”

He laughed and Lucius felt a jolt of anger. Abraxas Malfoy was a great man! How dare anyone insinuate otherwise!

“Don't look so incensed, pet, I knew the man far longer than you. It surprised me that he settled down so well in his marriage to your mother, considering what a good little cocksucker he was in school, and I wasn't the only one. Quite popular among the Slytherin boys, was Abraxas Malfoy.”

“My father was-” Lucius began, unable to listen to the outrageous words without responding.

“A complete slut, Lucius. Never lacking for willing partners. If I remember correctly, and I do, the quidditch team was especially fond of his... charms.” Voldemort reached out and stroked Lucius' cheek in feigned tenderness. “Shall I tell you, Lucius, how he helped me celebrate when I was made prefect? How enthusiastic he was? How sweetly he begged?”

Lucius trembled in suppressed rage and lowered his eyes. Voldemort only smiled. None of it was true of course, but it wasn't as if Abraxas was still alive to confirm or deny his claims. Let Lucius wonder. Let it eat at him. Let it taint and poison his memories.

“It's a shame you didn't inherit his talent along with his estate. But, perhaps you can redeem yourself.” He grabbed the blonde by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “Go to the bed, Lucius, and lean over it. Spread your legs and brace yourself.”

“No! This has gone far enough, My Lord, I am not a-” he began to protest but was cut off.

“Crucio!” Voldemort poured his power and excitement into the curse. His body vibrating with dark pleasure and joy. It was always so much more enjoyable when they refused. When they thought they could resist. Perhaps, after his victory was complete, he would make of the wizard a concubine. Bend and warp him until he lived to be taken by his Lord. It might be interesting.

The little coral snake started hissing its displeasure with the man's thrashing and Voldemort lifted the curse. It wouldn't do to have it bite Lucius if it wasn't necessary. The man did have his uses, though the thought of fucking him through his death trows was dreadfully appealing. Another time, he promised himself.

“What you are, Lucius, is my servant, and a convenient receptacle for my cock. Don't make me remind you of your place again, Lucius. You are expendable. Why, you've bred the perfect replacement, haven't you? How is young Draco, Lucius? Is he like his father, haughty and prideful, or more like his grandfather, sweet and obliging? Hmm?”

Lucius, tears in his eyes that he refused to let fall, crawled to the bed and pulled himself up to bend over it despite his shaking limbs. That he had to suffer these indignities was horrible, that his son might take his place unthinkable. He cursed his father for binding him to the sadist about to defile him.

Voldemort watched his servant's movements with amusement. He did so enjoy it when they broke, these Malfoys. Of course, Abraxas held out much longer, but Lucius was the result of a pampered upbringing. He didn't have old Farmanus Malfoy breathing down his neck growing up like his father did. Lucius, for all his pomp and swagger, was soft. Draco, was even more spoiled. He wouldn't give much sport at all, but Voldemort would have him too, in time. To complete the set, as it were.

Not that Abraxas had remembered just how far his submission to his Lord went, nor would Lucius. But the results remained the same. The body knew. The soul knew. The memory was inconsequential. Even after being Obliviated the next time Voldemort called him and ordered him to submit Lucius would roll over and take it with nary a whimper. Well, without objection anyway. He rather liked it when they whimpered.

“Now, Lucius, I'm going to take you, and since you've been so recalcitrant I'm afraid I'm going to have to be rather...  _hard_... on you. You won't be getting any preparation.” Voldemort instructed before crossing to his slave and caressing the man's backside. It was taut creamy perfection. He pinched the cheeks and then delivered a series of sharp slaps to redden and warm the flesh. Lovely. Lucius only cried out on the first slap and then bit his lip and endured the onslaught with steely stoicism, though his back tensed at each strike.

Another time he might conjure a paddle and see how many strokes it took for the man to sob for mercy, but at present the Dark Lord was aching to drive his cock into the man's virgin arse and disinclined to tarry. It had been such a long time. Longer than Lucius had been a follower. Festus Lestrange, wasn't it? Back in '67? Yes. Strong, muscular Festus. The man had been the very definition of masculinity and looked and carried himself like a gladiator. He'd slit the man's throat at the end with a silver dagger. Sex magic was frowned upon even among dark wizards these days, but it did have its uses, and Festus' magic had supplemented and complimented his own quite well. Voldemort licked his lips. Now there was a possibility for Severus.

“Lubricus.” Voldemort cast the spell and dropped his wand to the floor. Cleaving to Malfoy's back he wrapped his arms around the man beneath him seeking the man's cock and was pleased to find it still erect. He flexed his thighs and rubbed his own erection between the globes of Lucius' arse and chuckled when the man shuddered. “Don't forget, dear Lucius, what will happen should you come. My little friend will not be pleased and will retaliate on my behalf. Do keep it in mind.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Lucius replied, voice strangled and lacking its usual smooth timbre. He didn't think it would be a problem. He was only hard due to his Lord's spellwork and unlikely to find any pleasure in what was about to occur. He was mostly correct.

Voldemort gripped Lucius hip with his right hand while guiding his cock to the waiting pucker with his left. He pressed the head against the orifice firmly and felt it twitch. Lucius shivered and Voldemort leaned forward to place a kiss between the man's shoulders while thrusting in with as much force as he could muster. Lucius screamed and tried to pull away but his master held him fast.

Tears leaked from the once proud man's eyes as white hot agony burned inside him. “Stop!” he begged.

Voldemort pulled out and thrust back in. “Luciusss, I've only jussst begun.” he whispered, the sibilance in his speech intensifying as he gave himself over to pleasure. He bit the man's shoulder and sucked at the wound.

“Please! Please!” the blonde's breath hitched, and a sob followed the words. Pride be damned, he wanted it to stop.

Voldemort pushed Lucius' face into the mattress and increased his speed. Delighting in each spasm of pain he elicited as his cock split the man wide, reveling in the blazing warmth that welcomed him. The wizard was as tight as he was beautiful. Why had he denied himself this for so long? It was brilliant. It was a shame the majority of his followers were so unattractive. Oh well. More Students graduated from Hogwarts every year. He would simply add a few attributes to his list of requirements for new recruits. And this summer he could have Draco. Yes. Pretty little thing. He would have the boy in addition to his father. Maybe even with his father.

Voldemort moaned and changed his angle. Time for Lucius to participate properly, he should be loose enough by now. On the next thrust Lucius cried out and pushed back against him. There! “That'sss it, Luciusss.” He released the man's head and grasped both hips and continued to pound relentlessly on his toy's prostate. He would feel so much more ashamed if he enjoyed it.

Lucius was reeling. Jolts of pleasure warred with the burning pain and he found himself pushing back against his master, seeking more of it. The arousal was surging back now, drawing him in despite his horror and disgust. The mingled feelings whirling in his body were confusing him. He cried and moaned in equal measure.

Then the Dark Lord grasped him in a tight embrace and stiffened, and a stinging warmth spread in his bowels. For long moments both were still and quiet but for their labored breathing. Voldemort panted and rested his head on the sweat slicked back of his servant. He'd forgotten how intense an orgasm could be.

Voldemort pushed himself up and withdrew from Lucius body. The blonde winced as the softening cock was pulled from his arse but made no sound. Then the Dark Lord was forcing him to stand. Hands clasped his buttocks and forced the cheeks apart. Voldemort regarded the angry red hole and the fluids dripping from it with gratification. Blood streaked his seed and the Dark Lord was pleased to see it. Took pride in breaking the man in, and doing it well.

“Turn around, Lucius.”

The wizard complied, spirit subdued if not broken. His hair was in disarray, his pale skin flushed and sweaty, tears glittered on his aristocratic face, and he could care less. His arse was on fire and he was still hard as a rock. Under the spell of dark lust he didn't even care that there was a snake wrapped around his cock.

“Very good, Lucius.” The Dark Lord summoned his wand from the floor and banished the snake. “Now, perhaps a reward.” the reptilian wizard said, taking Lucius weeping cock in hand. “Do you want to come now, Lucius?”

Lucius hung his head and whispered, “Yes, My Lord.”

“But of course. You need only ask.” Voldemort smirked and grasped the man's chin with his free hand, forcing him to look his master in the eye. “Ask me to let you come, Lucius.”

“Please, may I come, My Lord?” Lucius asked, voice hoarse, tears of humiliation brimming in his eyes before spilling down his reddened cheeks. Voldemort leaned forward and licked the saline offerings from Malfoy's face with relish. For all their salt they were almost as sweet as his blood.

The Dark Lord began stroking the straining member in earnest, never breaking eye contact with his servant as he drank in his mortification. The flesh was hot and pulsing in his hand and twitched each time he flicked a fingernail over the tip. “Come for me, Lucius. Come for your master.”

Ropes of pearly liquid splattered Voldemort's feet. He threw back his head and laughed. So pleasing. So perfect. He grasped the man by the throat and kissed him hard, forcing his tongue between unresisting lips. Perhaps he would allow Lucius to remember their little encounter. Remember why he would flush in humiliation in his master's presence. Remember pleading to be allowed to come from the touch of his Lord's hand.

“Now,” he began once he ceased his assault on the blonde's mouth, “clean up your mess, Lucius.”

Lucius began to limp over to his pile of discarded clothing to fetch his wand when Voldemort stopped him with a hand on his arm. “My Lord?”

“You don't need your wand for this, Lucius.” the dark wizard gave him a chilly smile and pointed to his feet. When Lucius gave him a puzzled frown, Voldemort sighed. “Your tongue, Lucius.”

“I... yes, My Lord.” It wasn't any more degrading than anything else he'd done that night, really.

The feeling of a hot tongue laving one's feet was an acquired taste, Voldemort supposed, strange but not unpleasant. He could get used to it, and would if the stirring in his loins was any indication. Not as good as choking someone with one's cock, but pleasurable nonetheless. What else could he make Lucius do?

The Malfoy patriarch limped his way back to his manor when the sky was pinked with the imminent dawn, the remaining shreds of his dignity held closer than his cloak. He had endured two more rounds of the Dark Lord's games before being allowed to dress and leave, his belly full of cum and indignation, and of half a mind to unearth his father's remains just so he could piss on them. Voldemort said he would call for his services again soon. Lucius shuddered. If it wasn't for fear of leaving Draco alone in the man's clutches he'd rather kill himself than submit to the Dark Lord again. As it was he had no choice but return when called.

He would submit. For his son's sake. But, he would also begin to plan. Severus was more intelligent than he'd suspected, to get out as he did. An ally might be found in the Potions Master if he approached him in the right way. His fortune could easily be secured, his estate warded to the hilt, Narcissa could go hang, but Draco must be protected. Severus could help. He didn't care if the man was cozied up to Dumbledore. His son was worth any sacrifice, even fraternizing with mudblood lovers.


	5. To Save a Soul

_Saturday, May 3rd_

“You are telling me that Harry put your mark to sleep with a simple Dormio charm in Parseltongue... wandlessly?” The old man's eyebrows had long since migrated to his hairline while Severus related the events of the previous night. It was an incredible story to be sure, but Albus wasn't usually one to be so skeptical, especially when it came to Harry. Severus had thought up until now the Headmaster believed the sun shone out the boy's arse.

“Yes, Albus, that is precisely what transpired.” Severus replied, voice devoid of emotion. He was getting rather tired of repeating himself, and his nerves were frayed to begin with. He would snap at his mentor soon.

The old man steepled his fingers and stared off into space, lost in thought, for several minutes. When he came out of his contemplation he took hold of the younger man's arm and pushed up the sleeve to study the dormant Dark Mark. It was still black and clear, but plainly no longer active. It sat still on Severus' skin like a normal tattoo. Finally Dumbledore released the Potions Master's arm and looked him in the eye.

“My readings and your story of Harry's conversation with the image of the snake combined give me an idea that may give you long term relief and protection. I cannot remove your mark, of course, my dear boy, but I believe I know a way to contain it and block Tom from making use of it. But I will need Harry's help to do it.”

“What will you have Har- er, Potter do?” Severus could have smacked himself for the slip. Now Albus was twinkling at him. The spy hated when the old man did that. It was distinctly disturbing.

“I shall be giving young Harry a crash course in Alchemy.” Now it was Severus' eyebrows' turn to visit their owner's hairline.

“You- Potter- Alchemy- What?” Snape sputtered. Actually sputtered. Not his usual eloquent rejoinder to be sure, but it wasn't every day Severus heard anything remotely like that.  _Crash course indeed._

“And you may sit in on the lesson, if you wish.” Albus beamed and his eyes seemed to swirl with all the stars in the galaxy. “The more the merrier!”

When informed of their proposed course of action later that morning Harry's sentiments on the subject were rather closer to the Potions Master's than his Headmaster's.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sir, but really, I think I'd be more apt to ruin your work than help. Alchemy, from what I've read, is some of the most difficult complex magic there is. I'm just good at Defense and flying! Professor Snape will tell you. I botch potions left and right! I'd just muck up your work, Sir!” Harry exclaimed, looking at the old wizard as though he'd turned into a cereberus.

Albus chuckled and patted the young man's leg. Harry sat across the small kitchen table from his Headmaster and Professor, eating a light breakfast, dressed in soft, slightly oversized, borrowed clothing. The purple sweat pants and green tie-dyed t-shirt were a bit gaudy for his tastes, but beat limping about in a make-shift toga.

“Now, Harry, you don't give yourself enough credit. Remember, I see your marks for all of your classes and you do carry a solid E average.” Harry blushed which caused Albus' grin to widen. “You should take pride in your accomplishments, my boy. You've managed very good marks while juggling your classes with Quidditch, socializing, and some highly unusual activities in which most students never find themselves embroiled.”

Severus frowned and considered Dumbledore's words. It was all very true. Potter did well enough to rank tenth in his year even with all the distractions that surrounded him. If it were not for those oddities it stood to reason the young man could quite possibly acquit himself academically in a rather magnificent manner. He might not take the lead rank, but he would certainly move into the top five. There was no shame in that. Severus himself had ranked third in his year, just behind Remus Lupin. The boy's mother had been Valedictorian of their graduating class. Severus was not ashamed to admit that the fact that James Potter and Sirius black came in a distant thirteenth and fourteenth filled his heart with savage joy.

“Also, dear boy, keep in mind that while some potions principals transfer over into alchemy, the art has many other facets as well. Transfiguration and conjuration both figure heavily in the practice, as does metallurgy and arithmancy. Did you do well in science and mathematics at your muggle primary school?”

“Yes, Sir. I did fairly well.”

“Then it is possible you will pick up the fundamentals of alchemy with little difficulty. In the distant past, there were as many muggle alchemists as magical. They could never move into the more advanced and esoteric practices of the art due to their lack of magic, but the building blocks of alchemy are much the same as the rudiments of science. In fact, Harry, it is when muggle alchemists grew frustrated at their lack of progress in advanced alchemy that they branched out and began developing the foundations of what you would recognize as the modern muggle sciences.”

Harry tilted his head to the side and squinted at his Headmaster, trying to judge the expression on his face. The old man had never steered him wrong in the past. Always believed in him even when no one else did. He had the man's promise going back to his first year at Hogwarts that Dumbledore would never lie to him. Harry slowly nodded. “Alright, Sir. If you think it's a good idea, I'll help.”

“It is imperative that you do, Harry. There are portions of the ritual I am unable to safely complete.”

“Sir?”

“Forgive me, Harry, I know how easily embarrassed young men can be about this particular subject, but am I right in assuming you remain... ah, how to phrase it... chaste?”

“Huh?”

“That is to say, ah...”

“Oh for the love of Merlin! He wants to know if you're a virgin, Potter.” Snape snapped.

Harry turned a vibrant shade of pink and inhaled sharply. It wasn't every day your professor and headmaster asked such a personal, and yes, embarrassing question. “I uh- that is-” Harry began to splutter and dropped his gaze to his feet. “yes.” he finally managed to squeak.

Albus couldn't help himself and burst into hearty laughter.  _Ah, to be young again._  “Don't worry about it, lad. You are but fifteen. Time enough for amorous explorations later on. Right now this is well in our favor. Purity is important to many aspects of Alchemy. There are quite a few practices of the art that require physical purity of those involved. This is why the alchemists of yesteryear took on such young apprentices.” Albus winked and tapped the side of his nose. “Kept them from having to remain celibate all their lives.”

Harry glared at the old man and huffed. It was fine for him to say it didn't matter, the Headmaster didn't share a dorm with a herd of teenage leches that still wouldn't leave him alone about the Cho fiasco. It really wasn't his fault that she was crying through it all, or that it felt a bit like kissing a dead fish. “Can we just get on with it please?”

Albus began to nod when Severus forestalled any verbal response he might have made. “First, Headmaster, I suggest we do something about Potter's lack of spectacles. He can hardly attempt to harness the secrets of Alchemy whilst blind as a bat.”

Harry frowned and looked down at the table. It was true. His vision was poor on a good day with his glasses. Right now he only saw blobs of color, vague shapes, light and shadow if he tried to focus more than a few feet in front of him. “I'm sorry, Professors. I only had the one pair and Malfoy broke them.”

“What I want to know, Potter, is why you're still wearing glasses when Madam Pomfrey would have no difficulty in correcting your vision if you requested it?” Severus queried. “You must have noticed you are the only student at Hogwarts with spectacles. A potion was developed twelve years ago that can correct most vision impairments if the patient ingests it before adulthood.”

Harry's lingering blush darkened and he refused to meet his teacher's gaze. “Madam Pomfrey has offered me that potion before, Sir. She did say my particular problem could be treated, but for me to take it I have to have signed permission from my guardians because it is an elective treatment.” the young man mumbled and hazarded sneaking a quick glance at the Potions Master. “I took the form home after first year.”

Snape and Dumbledore shared an intense look before focusing back on their pupil.

“Your aunt wouldn't allow you to take the potion, Harry?” Albus asked, placing his hand over the young man's.

“Uncle Vernon shredded the form, Sir.”

“Harry, lad, perhaps before anything else we should discuss your situation with your relatives.”

Harry removed his hand from the Headmaster's grasp and looked away. “What is there to discuss, Sir? We don't get on. It's as simple as that.”

Dumbledore gave the boy a stern look and reached out to draw Harry's attention back to himself with a gentle touch to his chin. Harry huffed but complied.

“I told you at the end of first year that I didn't like it there. That they didn't like me.”

“Yes, but you didn't elaborate. It's a sad fact that not all families are as close as they could be.” Albus dropped his hand and leaned closer to his student. “Dislike doesn't always translate to abuse, and I did not believe your Aunt to be capable of such behavior.”

Harry glared at the man and leaned away. “You didn't give me the chance to say more, Sir! You just shut me down and said I had to go back!”

“Potter! Calm yourself.” Snape intervened before the emotional boy could escalate the situation. This conversation needed to happen and it needed everyone to remain level-headed if it were to be productive.

“Fine.” Harry hunched in on himself and glared at his hands. “We don't get on because they hate magic and anything to do with magic. They think I'm a freak and don't want me in their lives.”

“Harry, Professor Snape told me that when Macnair removed your clothing...” the old man trailed off. It was difficult to verbalize his questions sitting here with the boy. Especially with Harry looking so defensive and embarrassed. “Severus told me there were already numerous scars present. Are they-”

“They came from my Uncle's belt.” Harry mumbled. He wanted the conversation over and wasn't foolish enough to think Dumbledore and Snape would drop the subject. It was better to just get it out now and be done with it. “Horrible, narrow, patent leather thing that looks ridiculous on him, but hurts like crazy. He stopped that when I was thirteen, though. I was able to scare him by threatening him with my escaped convict Godfather”

Severus had to suppress a smile. That was actually rather clever of Potter. A Slytherin solution. Much as he loathed Sirius Black it seemed even that bastard could be useful at times. Not that he'd ever admit it.

“And your Aunt?” Albus prompted.

“Hasn't touched me since I was small. Even then it was usually just a quick cuff to the head or dragging me by the ear. She never liked having to touch me. That's why I was toilet trained and able to wash and dress myself so much earlier than my cousin. She preferred locking me in my room and withholding food as punishment. Or assigning me extra chores, though, I was doing so much of the house work already that it was sometimes difficult for her to find more for me to do. Actually, now that I think of it, that's probably why I had to paint the shed and fence so often. She just couldn't think of anything else.”

Harry shrugged. The woman was a bitter shrew, but he had never feared her like he did Uncle Vernon. Honestly, even Dudley was worse than she was. Harry would choose drudge work over getting the snot beat out of him any day.

“Potter,” Severus had glimpsed memories of the boy locked in a miniscule, claustrophobic room, not entirely unlike a cell. The ceiling was so low Severus could not have stood to his full height, and it would be difficult to stretch out if he were to lay down, though he supposed a child as petite as Potter had been could have managed. It was lit only by the pale light creeping through the gaps between door and frame. The memories uncovered during their Occlumency lessons were tinged with a stifling desperation that aroused Snape's curiosity and set his teeth on edge. He wanted his suspicions confirmed. “You said she preferred locking you in your room.”

Harry looked at the man and raised an eyebrow in unconscious imitation of the Professor's most common expression. Well, apart from a scowl or sneer. “Yes, Professor. She did.”

“During our private lessons this year I often saw your memories of being confined to small dark space, rather like a broom cupboard.”

“Well yes, that was my room, Professor. Until the letters from Hogwarts started coming, anyway. I was allowed to move into Dudley's second bedroom after that.” the Gryffindor explained, meeting the man's eyes briefly as he did so.

Harry's features twisted into a brief scowl before smoothing out again. In a way that hurt worse than all the other abuse combined. Watching his aunt and uncle fawn over his cousin and indulge his every whim made his heart ache and ignited an ugly cold fire in his gut which threatened to bloom into an unquenchable inferno of hate. That, more than anything, accounted for his inability to suppress his emotions at Hogwarts. He swallowed so much bitterness in his relatives' home that he was incapable of doing so where he knew he was safe from the type of tyranny in which the Dursleys specialized. Well, until Umbridge joined the staff.  _The evil bitch._  Until this year Harry had felt comfortable expressing his negative emotions without fear of reprisal.

“Your room!” Albus exclaimed. The look of shock on his face was almost comical. Severus barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“I was really upset about that you know, for the longest time, because that's how my letter was addressed, to the cupboard under the stairs. I thought that meant everyone was fine with me being forced to live in a cupboard when there were two spare bedrooms in the house. Especially after you said I had to go back after first year.” Harry said, eyes distant and bright with unshed tears which he furiously blinked away. “Then in third year I finally broke down and gave in to Hermione's nagging and read  _Hogwarts: A History,_  and found out they are addressed by a special enchanted quill.”

“Oh, my boy, if we had known-”

“Don't. Just, please... I don't want to keep going over this. It happened. I don't want to go back, but I'm not going to sit here and go over every little detail with you. I can't.” Harry looked at the Headmaster with imploring eyes. “It was miserable enough just to live it.” the young man said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Harry-”

“Albus,” Severus caught the old man's gaze and shook his head. “Let it go.” If the old man pushed too hard Potter's stubborn streak would come into play, and they definitely didn't need that at this juncture.

Harry looked at his Potions Professor, his a countenance a portrait of unconcealed gratitude. The corner of the taciturn man's mouth quirked up in the semblance of a smile and Harry returned the silent gesture with a respectful incline of his head. They might never acknowledge it, but in this they understood one another perfectly, though decades stood between the echoes of their pain. Snape earned himself extra points when he called his personal elf and sent it to covertly fetch the required potion from his private stores at the school.

Later, after Harry took a nap while the vision correction potion circulated through his veins, the trio of wizards stood in an impressive subterranean chamber that served as Albus Dumbledore's laboratory for alchemical research, entered by descending a spiral staircase that had to stretch nearly one hundred feet below the surface of the earth into a cavern glittering with natural crystal formations. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling like the fangs of gargantuan beast, and while some stalagmites rose in sharp points from the floor, more that a few had been sanded down into flat pillars that supported trestle tables and strange recondite equipment that even Severus – as well read as he was – had to admit he could not identify.

Beakers and decanters and flasks made from crystal and glass. Copper and brass tubing curling helter-skelter in a manner that would please the whimsy of any mad scientist. Crucibles, and cauldrons, and braziers. A hulking furnace which radiated enough heat to induce sweating if you ventured close, even with its fire banked to naught but glowing coals. Deep bins full of raw metals and semi-precious stones. All this and more made up Albus' private playground and pride and joy.

Albus chuckled at the looks of awe on both of his boy's faces and left them to stare as he went to one of his massive work benches and began pulling open drawers and removing the array of tools and instruments they would need to accomplish what he had in mind. Harry, reveling in his now sharp vision, drank in every glittering marvel as though it were the visual equivalent of water to a man dying of thirst.

“Harry lad, please bring me an ingot of silver from the bin by the stairs, if you would.” Albus requested. “Take your time. Find one that feels good to you. One that resonates. You'll know it's the right one when you touch it.”

Harry tore himself away from looking at the amazing cavern and went to the bin as he was bid. Inside a bin that was a bit taller than his waist were an abundance of octagonal ingots of silver, each larger than his fist. The young man's mind boggled at the wealth stored beneath his Headmaster's home. There were many bins scattered about the space, each containing their own precious cargo; gold, platinum, a strange pink metal that Harry had never seen before, and more gemstones than he could ever hope to name. And those were just the bins Harry could see. There were more tucked away in shadowy corners or covered with tarps. He couldn't even imagine what might be in them.

He began shifting the ingots, feeling as he went, but all of them felt just the same. Cool and smooth. How else should metal feel? He didn't know, so he kept searching. After ten minutes he was beginning to seriously doubt his Headmaster's sanity. “Sir,” he called, admitting defeat. “none of these feel any different from the others.”

“Hmm.” Albus turned and considered his student. “Try platinum. Third bin to your right.”

Harry shrugged and complied. Or tried to. The only difference he could feel was in the shape. Triangles this time. “Sir...”

Snape snorted, but both of his companions ignored him.

“Gold. One bin to your left.”

Standard rectangular bars this time, and again, cool and smooth, but he kept trying. He felt all of the bars at least twice. “Uh, Sir, still nothing.”

Snape sat on a large stalagmite which had been carved into a chair and smirked. “Still think you can give him a crash course, Albus?”

“Hush, Severus. It's only a matter of finding the right metal. This stage of the process has nothing to do with aptitude, only compatibility.” Albus leaned against his workbench and scratched his head. “Perhaps an alloy would better meet our needs. There is a small bin of rose gold over by the largest cauldron, Harry. Try that.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The metal was pink, and this time the ingots were trapezoidal. When he touched the third ingot Harry gasped and grasped it tighter. It was warm, and made his fingers tingle. Something in the metal drew him as if he were a magnet. It felt... right. “This one!” He spun around and held the ingot above his head in victory, smiling.

“Bravo.” Severus deadpanned, and clapped slowly. “It only took you the better part of an hour.”

“Severus, don't antagonize the boy.”

Harry ignored the sarcasm – the man was stressed so allowances could be made – and carried his small burden to the work area the old wizard was setting up near a pair of crucibles which looked to be made of volcanic glass. “Why is the gold pink, Sir?”

Albus took the ingot and gave the boy a pleased smile. “Rose gold is pink due to the presence of copper. It is as I said, an alloy, as opposed to a pure metal, and I think a good choice for us.”

“Why is that?” Harry was fascinated.

“As a blend of both copper and gold it will bring qualities inherent in both elements to our work. Gold brings power, balance, repels negativity, and can prevent spiritual corrosion. It is considered a masculine element, and some believe that it increases potency when used in fertility talismans.”

“Wow, I never knew gold could do all that.” Harry smiled and moved closer so he could get a better look at what the old man was doing.

“Oh yes, it's value isn't only monetary. That is why the Head of House rings belonging to the older families are always made of gold.” Albus went back to arranging his work space while he lectured. It was pleasant to find someone interested in the dying art of alchemy. Perhaps Harry would consider an apprenticeship when he was older if he showed talent for the craft.

“And the copper?”

“Copper helps clarify thought and amplifies spiritual energy. It has value in protective magics, and warders often carve runes into small copper discs which are then set into the foundation of the building being warded to expand the power of the keystone. It also promotes healing.”

“It's amazing that a chunk of pink metal can do all that!” the young man exclaimed, eyes lit with interest and enthusiasm.

“Yes, rose gold will serve us well in this instance.” Albus smiled and patted his student's shoulder. “Quite appropriate.”

Severus stood and joined them. “That's all well and good, Albus, but what exactly  _are_  we doing?”

“We are going to create a permanent talismanic amulet.” Dumbledore's expression turned serious. “One I hope will completely usurp Voldemort's power over your mark.”

“When you say permanent-”

“I won't lie to you, Severus, this process will be painful. We are going to embed the talisman in your flesh and fuse it to the mark.”

Severus paled but nodded his acquiescence. Albus would work as rapidly as he was able. He wouldn't draw out the process any longer than necessary.

“Sir, is there no other way?” Potter looked nauseous at the prospect of what they were about to attempt.

“None that cannot be circumvented. Take heart, dear boy, that portion of the ritual will be over quickly and we will give Professor Snape a pain relief draught as soon as it is complete.”

Albus disappeared into an alcove for a few moments only to return with a small wooden chest, which he placed before the Potions Master.

“Albus?”

“This contains some of the most powerful, magically pure stones in my possession. We require two for the ritual. As the metal had to resonate properly with Harry's magic, these must resonate with yours.”

As the old man hustled the young Savior off to be outfitted in safety gear for their work, Severus opened the chest and began to sift through the impressive array of stones and gems. It didn't take long for the man to zero in on his matches. All felt magically powerful, but two in particular seemed to vibrate under his touch. When he presented the opal and black tourmaline to Albus, the man hummed with satisfaction and added them to their growing cache of materials with alacrity, before returning to his work.

There was much to be done, but Severus found himself spending most of the following hours merely watching as he sat out of the way of his companions. Harry, he was surprised to note, took his mentor's instruction quite well, and was proving himself a diligent student. He did as directed and held his questions until Albus could divide his attention enough to safely answer. And he never once complained, even when Albus had him pumping the bellows on the furnace for nearly an hour, content with the explanation that using a charm would contaminate the magical fire they were stoking.

“The fire must remain pure of outside magic, Harry, or else the whole ritual will fail. It would taint the crucible and thus the metal, altering its properties until it may well do just the opposite of what we wish to accomplish. The application of magic has to be carefully timed for this ritual.”

“Yes, Sir.” And that was it. Off he went.

Perhaps, Severus allowed, his persona didn't invite inquisitiveness from his students. If he were more approachable it was feasible that his students would show this level of attentiveness and tractability. He imagined that when Albus was Hogwart's Transfiguration professor, he was both effective and well liked. It really was no wonder that the man had become Headmaster. It was also obvious from the warm smile on the man's face he was enjoying having a student to teach once again. And Harry fairly vibrated with joy from the smallest bit of praise and encouragement.

Severus shuddered. They were lucky. So lucky. It took little to secure the young man's devotion. If someone like Lucius Malfoy had approached him at the right time, in the right way, Harry would have been his for the asking. It wouldn't have been hard to seduce the uncertain child Potter had been in the beginning. To draw him in with kind words. Attention. And then all one would have had to do was introduce him to a blood purist's ideology in a careful way, holding up his hated relatives as an example of just how horrible muggles could be.

The Potions Master watched the boy at work. He was seemingly unconcerned by how ridiculous he looked wearing a dragon hide apron and gloves with Albus' garish clothing, a pair of protective goggles perched atop the tousled mess he called hair. Harry's smiling face was open and honest as he bounced about the lab, exuding power, eager to please.

Then Severus imagined the darkling that could have just as easily been nurtured in his place. A wizard just as dark and warped as the one they were combating. In other words, a wizard much like he had been in his youth. What had been different? What kept this young man in the light, when Severus fell so easily to darkness? Was Potter just so intrinsically good that darkness couldn't gain a foothold? Or was it something else?

The boy was a walking contradiction, and it irritated Severus just how intriguing he found the young man now that he'd been forced to see him without a veneer of false impressions. One moment he was a world weary warrior, and the next he was an innocent child bubbling over with an excess of ebullience.

Though he seemed to be taking the work seriously, there was still a glimmer of something indefinable in Harry's eyes whenever he was given a new task or handled a new tool. It reminded him of those early years of Draco's life before he became a pale imitation of his father. Before he was completely spoiled. The little blonde sprite would go into paroxysms of joy and flit about like a hummingbird whenever he received a present, no matter how insignificant.

“-ow, Severus.” Albus laid a hand on his arm and drew him from his reverie.

“What was that, Albus?”

“We are ready for you now, Severus.” Dumbledore repeated, concern writ clearly on his features.

Severus blinked and hauled himself to his feet. Albus had been quite busy while the Potions Master mused on the enigma that was Harry Potter. The old man's unparalleled transfiguration skills had conjured a raised ritual slab from the stone in the center of the cavern. The entire thing was engraved in spells written in the Honorian alphabet, which Severus only identified due to his extensive studies of Agrippa's  _de Occulta Philosophia_ while working toward his potions mastery. He could decipher a word or two, but an in depth translation was beyond the Slytherin without aid of his reference books. He was surprised the Theban runes were used instead of the alchemical sigils one would normally expect in preparation of a ritual steeped so heavily in alchemy.

The massive slab was encircled by chalk diagrams drawn on the floor. Whenever Severus blinked it seemed as though the arcane chalk designs shifted into different configurations. Thick pillar candles of purest beeswax that must have been over a foot tall were evenly spaced around the perimeter, resting in obsidian basins which also held a few inches of water; thirteen of them, and they were conspicuous for their resemblance to oversized scrying bowls. When the the wicks were lit he knew the candles would render the surface of the water perfectly reflective.

At the foot of the altar a simple brass censer held a large coal glowing with heat, and small bowls of sage and agrimony flanked it ready for burning. Severus nodded in approval. They were excellent choices for the tailored ritual. Perhaps it came only from the herbs' familiarity, but the sight of them calmed the Potions Master and set him at ease.

Albus drew him away from the ritual space to an alcove blocked by a privacy screen. “Everything is already laid out for you. Wash thoroughly and then dress in the provided robe, Severus. Wear nothing else.” the old man instructed before ushering him behind the screen.

Severus sighed when he caught sight of the thin white muslin robe hung from a peg on the wall, but didn't complain. He knew only too well how meticulous one must be about following rituals to the letter.

There was a circular copper bathing vessel, large enough to stand in but certainly too small for him to sit. A make-shift shower it would have to be, but he would manage. Severus knew Albus must have some reason for forcing him to use such inadequate accommodations when the old man's home above had several perfectly good ̶ and blissfully warm ̶ bathrooms he could use instead. Away from the furnace the cavern was quite cold, and the raven haired man felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh. The Slytherin allowed himself a momentary scowl of displeasure before surveying the rest of his bathing accoutrements. Several large jugs of steaming water stood on a neighboring table. A towel, a natural sponge, a dark brown bar of soap, and a green bottle which held what he assumed to be shampoo were present as well.

Severus slipped off his boots and undressed with precise economical movements honed from years of practice. Robe, coat, waistcoat, cravat, shirt, trousers, and undergarments were each removed in turn and folded before being placed on the low bench situated against the wall. The stone floor felt frigid under his bare feet and he stepped into the small copper vessel to escape the chill.

After dousing himself with half a jug of water he poured shampoo from the green bottle into his palm and then proceeded to meticulously clean his hair. He took his time and did a thorough job, knowing how oily his hair tended to become when he neglected it while on brewing binges – which was more often than not.

Lily – sweet dedicated friend that she was – would remind him to look after himself back during their school days, and wouldn't let him go longer than three days without cleaning it. Severus sighed and reached for the sponge and soap. He really should take better care of himself. Severus scrubbed until his skin was red and well lathered in the sandalwood scented soap. Lily had always taken special care in her grooming and encouraged him to do the same. Lily would be sad to see how far he had let himself go.

Severus closed his eyes and imagined himself through her eyes. Tall and whipcord thin, lank greasy hair, hands stained by years of unprotected exposure to potions ingredients, skin sallow from poor habits and lack of sun, teeth yellowed by too much tea and too little bushing. Unvarying wardrobe of black. The Lily of his childhood would take one look at the adult he had become and pronounce him  _creepy_. The man snorted and shook his head before setting aside the soap and sponge. It was an apt epithet for a dungeon dweller.

As he began to rinse himself with the remaining jugs of rapidly cooling water he decided it might not be such a bad idea to rectify a few of the oversights he was making in regard to his hygiene. Stop excusing the lapse by reason of his profession. He regularly attended Potions Conferences, and he knew damn well many of the other Masters took great pains to ensure they were well turned out despite their dedication to their craft. Severus had been lazy and complacent. There was no excuse for it. Examining his interactions with his peers he now understood their sneering attitudes toward him might have less to do with professional envy than he'd once thought.

“If you don't care for yourself, Sev, neither will anyone else.” Lily had said to him on numerous occasions. As much as he had loved his best friend, it would seem he had taken none of her wisdom to heart. How different his life might have been had he done so.

Severus dried himself and laid the towel on the floor before stepping onto it out of the little tub. He might not be much to look at, but he was clean from top to toe. He pulled the simple robe on over his head and was pleased to find that it fit even if it wasn't something he would choose to willingly wear under different circumstances.

He stepped from behind the screen and noticed Albus had conjured two more bathing nooks. Potter exited his and stared back at his Professor from across the cavern. Severus couldn't help but notice how the boy's hair fell in almost Byzantine ringlets while wet, reinforcing the image of a Renaissance angel, especially clothed as he was in the pristine white ritual robe. Severus swallowed and looked away. He really needed to put such thoughts out of his head.

For his part, Harry was struck dumb at the sight of the Potions Master. He had never seen the man wear anything other than black, so the white robe was shocking enough as it was, but he had also never seen the man look so clean or, well, human. Snape's skin looked more olive than sallow against the fresh muslin, and his fine hair was drying in wispy waves about his broad shoulders. Together with the man's regal Roman nose, well defined cheekbones, and deep set dark eyes, Snape looked impressively patrician. It was a major improvement over his usual mien of unkempt malevolence.

In that moment, Harry thought the man almost handsome. Attractive at the very least. The young Gryffindor nodded to himself as his Professor looked away.  _Yes. Definitely attractive._  Harry froze and quickly turned his back lest the man return his attention and see the look of mortification on his student's face.  _I do not find my Potions Professor attractive!_  He squeezed his eyes shut and suppressed his panic.  _This is Snape! You do not find him attractive! He's a he, for Merlin's sake! It's been a long couple of days and you aren't quite yourself, Harry. That's all! Put it out of your mind._  He refocused his attention on the imminent ritual and refused to consider Snape's possible attractiveness any further.

Both men were saved from their awkward contemplations when Albus exited his nook dressed in resplendent robes of ivory silk embroidered in silver and gold geometric patterns. A purple Master's mantle draped the old man's shoulders, and his long silver hair and beard were braided into simple plaits. His head was crowned with a tall ivory hat akin to a mitre. Harry thought he looked a bit like that Pope fellow he'd seen on telly back in primary. Minus the long hair and beard.

The old man smiled. “Good, good. Everyone's ready. Harry,” he addressed the boy in question kindly, “prepare the ink as we discussed while I get Professor Snape situated on the altar.”

“Yes, Sir.” Harry went to a table near the altar and began grinding powdered unicorn horn and kohl in a mortar while slowly adding measures of liquid indigo to render the ink.

“Come, Severus.”

Soon Snape found himself flat on his back on a bed of unyielding stone, and was reminded ̶ rather uncomfortably ̶ of his short stint in Azkaban before Albus vouched for him and secured his freedom. At least here there were no dementors, and he didn't have to listen to mad Bellatrix raving about avenging her master. No, here he just had to gird himself for a juvenile's attempt at performing advanced alchemy on his person, and... why did he agree to this again?

“Stretch your arms out from your body and allow them to rest palms up, Severus.”

Severus complied and Albus pushed his left sleeve up above his elbow and exposed the loathsome mark of his bondage to the mad man who was once Tom Riddle. The Slytherin closed his eyes and began the first tier breathing exercises he used to reenforce his Occlumency. He was the object of this ritual, not a participant, so he intended to use whatever passive meditative techniques as he was able in hope of mitigating the coming pain.

“Lapidem Amplexu.” Albus sounded almost apologetic as he cast the spell, but Severus could only growl. He hated being confined in any way, and the stone binding bands which grew out of the altar to embrace him allowed for no movement.

“Albus-”

“I am sorry, Severus, but I cannot take the chance that you might move. The creation of an embedded permanent talisman requires a great deal of precision. I know you have a greater tolerance for pain than most, my boy, but all things considered it is quite possible you might involuntarily flinch or pull away. I must insist on the restraining spell.”

Severus glared at the old man before closing his eyes and attempting his breathing exercises once more. It wasn't easy. The stone bands bracing his extremities weren't intolerable, but the ones encasing his torso squeezed him like the fist of a giant, and rendered him incapable of filling his lungs to capacity.

“The ink is ready, Professor.”

“Wonderful, Harry. Come. Time to draw the guide pattern over the Mark just like you practiced.”

A sharpened quill, pregnant with magical ink, moved over his forearm leaving cold wet trails, causing Severus to flinch. The pattern being scratched into his skin by the young acolyte began to burn. With a sigh he abandoned the breathing exercises and opened his eyes. Potter stood beside him, bent over his Professor's outstretched arm, scarlet quill in hand. Periodically he would dip the stylus into the bowl of ink, or refer to a diagram on a crumbling piece of parchment Albus held for him, but his concentration was absolute.

After long minutes Potter straightened and looked to the Headmaster for approbation of his work. Albus stepped closer and studied the inked pattern, eyes darting rapidly from parchment to flesh. Finally the old man nodded and granted the boy a smile. Harry exhaled in relief and smiled back.

“Bring the crucibles, Harry, we are ready to begin.”

The young Gryffindor inclined his head and moved away in the direction of the furnace. Albus clasped the supine Slytherin by the shoulder and held his gaze long moments while Potter pulled a work table closer to the ritual space and set up the special tripods to support the heated crucibles. Thoughts and feelings flowed freely between them; things Severus would never allow to be spoken openly. Love, gratitude, and contrition Severus offered freely, not knowing if he would ever again have the opportunity to express to his mentor his depth of feeling for him.

Albus bent close enough that his breath and beard tickled the Potions Master's ear. “There is nothing to forgive, Severus. You've accomplished more than I ever dared dream, my boy. I couldn't be prouder of the man you've become if you were my own flesh and blood. You are the son of my heart, my boy.” When the man pulled away his blue eyes shone, and a relaxed expression had settled onto his care-worn face. “Try not to worry, Severus. I have every confidence that this ritual shall succeed. This isn't goodbye.”

Potter appeared at Albus' elbow, forestalling further emotional blathering, for which Severus was grateful. Severus was pleased the old man cared for him, and held him in high esteem. The sentiments were reciprocated, he just didn't want to have to talk about it.

“The vessels are ready, Sir.”

“Then let us begin without further delay.” And with a flick of his wand Albus set a parchment bearing the ritual's incantations to hover next to them, then took up a handful of agrimony and sage and sprinkled it over the waiting coal. A whispered spell lit the surrounding candles even as the remaining lights in the cavern dimmed to nothing.

Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and centered himself. He exhaled slowly, before opening his eyes and drawing his borrowed wand from his sleeve. Severus had never seen him look more earnest than when he was staring at the parchment, silently mouthing the words. Sweat rose in beads on the young man's brow as he turned and pointed his wand at the crucible containing the liquified gold.

“Metállo̱n sti̱ sárka mia morfí̱ fragmoú.” Harry made a complicated zigzagging pattern over the crucible before pivoting to jab his wand at the center of the Mark on Severus' arm.

The molten pink metal rose from the vessel in a swirling stream which seemed to slither and undulate through the air before coalescing into an intricate pattern and hovering over the mark. Even inches away from the man's flesh the heat was unbearable, forcing Severus to grit his teeth to hold back the instinctive urge to beg them to stop the ritual. Potter jabbed his wand at the quivering mass, and winced as it sank onto his teacher's arm.

 _Sweet fucking Merlin's ghost!_  Severus had been subjected to a myriad forms of torture in his life, but even the hideous pain he had endured the night before had nothing on the feeling of molten metal searing its way into his body. Severus strained against the stone bindings in a futile attempt to jerk away from the source of his agony. The usually stoic man howled and begged as his skin sizzled and blackened. The scent of his flesh as it cooked was sickly sweet, and made the stomachs of all three men roil and threaten to spill their contents.

Harry's hands shook and he had tears in his eyes, but knew he could not stop. He held his left wrist over the second crucible and forced himself to steady as Albus drew a curved silver blade over his skin.

“Se pétra réei aíma katharó” Dumbledore chanted. He allowed the young man's blood to flow freely for several moments, hissing and crackling as it met the surface of the white hot molten stone.

Harry grew pale and trembled, but did not pull away until the Headmaster whispered a healing charm and sealed the cut. Once his wrist stopped bleeding he immediately began the next incantation and began to weave his wand in a series of concentric circles over the blood infused liquid stone. “Apó ti̱ zo̱í̱ stis fléves mou Éna morfés ki̱demóna.”

Severus panted and whimpered as he watched his two tormentors. “No, please!”

The boy's eyes held an apology as he once more jabbed his wand at the center of the mark. Severus couldn't look. When the super heated stone hit his flesh, Severus released an unearthly shriek. The man's eyes, black and brimming with tears, flew wide for a brief moment, before he blessedly lost consciousness.

“Écho̱ spásei anamoní̱ ti̱s skoteiní̱s kápoiou.” Harry managed to croak as he maintained the same inner mantra he had taken up the moment Snape began screaming.  _Must not stop. Must not stop. Must not stop._  Below even that, somewhere in his mind he was in complete horror, hating himself for inflicting so much pain on the man, even if it was for the surly Slytherin's benefit.

Albus laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder even as he continued his part of the ritual. “I̱ pétra fylakí̱ ti̱s skoteiní̱s avatar tou gínetai.”

A goblet was pressed into Harry's hand. He took a deep breath and stepped forward to douse the still sizzling flesh with its contents. The saltwater hissed and steam rose from Snape's arm when it made contact.

Albus added another handful of herbs to the censor, but nothing could cover the scent which was all too reminiscent of roasting pork.

“Me ti̱ théli̱sí̱ mou, as mi̱ epi̱reázoun to myaló í̱ ti̱n entolí̱ i̱ sárka.” Harry rested the tip of his wand against the now hardened and cooling oval of opalescent purple stone rimmed with intricate filigree curls of rose gold.

Albus hurried around the altar to stand opposite his pupil. Albus lay a gentle hand on Severus forehead while Harry's rested over the man's heart. Both raised their wands and began to chant.

“Me ti̱ dýnami̱ ti̱s Gi̱s, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán.” Green vines of magic drifted down and sank into the talisman. The Potions Master twitched as the magic took root.

“Me ti̱ dýnami̱ tou Aéra, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán.” Billowy white vapor followed the green.

“Me ti̱ dýnami̱ ti̱s Fo̱tiás, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán.” Flickering red light floated down and into the talisman like sparks. Severus moaned and twitched again, but remained unconscious.

“Me ti̱ dýnami̱ tou Neroú, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán.” A blue stream swirled and eddied down causing the comatose man to shiver.

“Me ti̱n ierotelestía ti̱s Mageías, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai eléf̱theros.” Golden light flared, enveloping them all.

Harry blinked a moment, clearing the spots from his field of vision, before lowering his wand to the talisman. “Me ki̱demóna pétra , i̱ zo̱í̱ tou eínai dikí̱ tou.”

“Étsi eíte prókeitai.” As Albus completed the last incantation the candles around the perimeter of the ritual space flared before snuffing out, leaving the men in darkness with the smell of burnt flesh and spent wax lingering in the air, overlay by the acrid scent of smoldering herbs.

 

 **AN:**   _The spell Albus used to bind Severus is in Latin. The ritual was in Greek. Translations are listed below. Blame Google for any mistakes, as I used their translator._

_Lapidem Amplexu – Stone Embrace_

_Metállo̱n sti̱ sárka mia morfí̱ fragmoú – metal in flesh a barrier form_

_Se pétra réei aíma katharó – into stone flows blood pure_

_Apó ti̱ zo̱í̱ stis fléves mou Éna morfés ki̱demóna – by the life in my veins a guardian forms_

_Écho̱ spásei anamoní̱ ti̱s skoteiní̱s kápoiou – I break the dark one's hold_

_I̱ pétra fylakí̱ ti̱s skoteiní̱s avatar tou gínetai – The stone the dark avatar's prison becomes_

_Me ti̱ théli̱sí̱ mou, as mi̱ epi̱reázoun to myaló í̱ ti̱n entolí̱ i̱ sárka – By my will, let none influence the mind or command the flesh_

_Me ti̱ dýnami̱ ti̱s Gi̱s, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán – By the power of Earth, this man is free_

_Me ti̱ dýnami̱ tou Aéra, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán – By the power of Air, this man is free_

_Me ti̱ dýnami̱ ti̱s Fo̱tiás, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán – By the power of Fire, this man is free_

_Me ti̱ dýnami̱ tou Neroú, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai do̱reán – By the power of Water, this man is free_

_Me ti̱n ierotelestía ti̱s Mageías, af̱tós o ánthro̱pos eínai eléf̱theros – By rite of Magic, this man is free_

_Me ki̱demóna pétra, i̱ zo̱í̱ tou eínai dikí̱ tou – By guardian stone, his life is his own_

_Étsi eíte prókeitai – So be it_


	6. Sirius Contemplation

_Sunday, May 4th_

 

Remus Lupin prided himself on being a man well in control of his temper. As a werewolf the world expected him to be a violent beast, and it pleased him to prove them wrong simply by remaining the level headed individual into which he had matured. He did not regret his association with the marauding friends of his youth, or the prankish behavior they once engaged, however, he was glad that he had outgrown the more childish aspects of his character.

 

Sitting in the gloomy kitchen of his friend's ancestral home he felt his temper slipping for the first time in ages. They were adults now, with corresponding responsibilities and expectations resting on their shoulders, but his dearest friend seemed bound and determined to resist maturity at all costs.

 

Sirius Black had always been the most volatile of their coterie, and certainly being incarcerated for over a decade in one of the harshest prisons on the face of the earth hadn't helped, but the man's arrested development was becoming a major annoyance to deal with. Moody, sullen, impulsive, and immature, Sirius was not pleasant company these days.

 

Every day Remus was forced to listen to a never ending litany of complaints, demands, and harebrained schemes, and every day he had to spend hours reigning Sirius in before he could cause himself, and the Order, a great deal of trouble.

 

Sirius wanted to go out. Sirius wanted excitement. Sirius wanted to use glamours and go night clubbing. Sirius wanted to prank Snape, just like the good old days. Sirius wanted Harry to come stay. Sirius wanted Harry to act more like James. Sirius wanted his motorcycle back. Sirius wanted to get laid. Sirius wanted to fool around with Remus.

 

“Come on, Moony,” he'd said, giving the werewolf his very best puppy dog eyes. “Just a quick wank together if nothing else.”

 

Remus sighed and reached to refill his teacup. After taking a sip he slouched in his chair and rubbed his temples. Padfoot just couldn't seem to understand that while Remus had experimented with boys a bit at Hogwarts, he had settled into his sexuality rather comfortably, and much preferred women. Sirius hadn't looked twice at a male during his youth. He had been the ladies man of Gryffindor back then. But now, all of a sudden, he decided he wanted to try having it off with men, and Remus should be more accommodating. After all, he had been with men before, so why not give it up to his best friend now. As if making out with two boys and getting a blow job once made Remus so promiscuous as to fuck at the drop of a hat.

 

Sirius needed a good kick up the backside and some time with a mind healer. His behavior now was far worse than when he'd been a teenager. Being a fugitive meant his friend wasn't likely to get the help he needed anytime soon, if ever. If Harry was allowed to visit Headquarters again this summer, Remus only hoped Sirius would pull himself together while the boy was staying with them.

 

Harry looked to his godfather to be like a parent to him, or a fun uncle at the very least. Someone he could look up to. Someone he could depend on. The boy was going through a tough phase just now, and needed the support. Sirius had done his best last summer, but by Christmas he was already in the beginning stages of his downward spiral. What with all the drama surrounding the attack on Arthur Weasley, the lad didn't really notice, but Remus was afraid Harry was going to be disappointed when he saw his godfather again, and the werewolf didn't want that to happen. And he definitely didn't want Harry to have to watch his godfather make desperate passes at his old Defense Professor.

 

It wasn't as if the lycanthrope no longer loved Sirius. The man was, and would always remain, something of a wild brother one regards with fond exasperation, but Sirius' behavior was becoming a serious issue – no pun intended. Besides being rather obnoxious it was also entirely inappropriate. Remus was beginning to have nightmares involving a drunken Sirius propositioning him during an Order meeting. Snape would never let him live it down. The Slytherin would surely smirk at him for the next twenty years should that happen. That knowing smirk that immediately made you recall your most embarrassing moments, and blush to your ear tips, no matter how hard you tried to suppress the reaction. _Merlin I hate that._

 

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to sit Sirius down and force him to listen. With judicious application of sticking and silencing charms if necessary. He hated having to do it, but it had always fallen to Remus, hadn't it? Even when the Marauders were at their worst he had to pull his head out and become the voice of reason.

 

Who convinced James that sneaking into Lily's dorm room and delivering himself to her wearing nothing but a large red ribbon and a smile wasn't the perfect way to get her to be his Valentine?

 

Remus.

 

Who convinced Peter that despite Sirius and James' assertions to the contrary, joining the French Foreign Legion wasn't the only way he'd ever lose his virginity?

 

Remus.

 

Who convinced a newly graduated and completely inebriated Sirius that pinching McGonagall's bum and giving her a right solid snog was not the way to show his appreciation for all her years as their Head of House?

 

Remus.

 

Stopped Peter from getting that unicorn tattoo? Saved Sirius from being cursed by that jail-bait French witch's father? Kept James from burning the Slytherin team's brooms? Bailed all three out after that fistfight down the Hog's Head?

 

Again and again. Remus John Lupin, arse-saver extraordinaire. He should have business cards made.

 

The truth was, during his misspent youth, it had all seemed great fun, even when they were in trouble. He, a werewolf, had a trio of friends who accepted him completely and included him in everything. Shy, bookish, Remus whose only wish was to attend school despite the stigma and restrictions placed on people with his particular affliction found himself popular at the greatest magical school in the British Isles. Despite the fact that he knew his jocular friends also had a bit of a mean streak, and sometimes played pranks that were cruel and made him wince, it was a glorious idyllic time in his life.

 

That was then. He was nearing forty now. Boyhood was far behind him and he had no desire to relive it. Were it not for his lycanthropy he would be looking to marry and settle down to hearth and home. He had his memories, and that was more than enough. Now he looked at Sirius and could understand why Snape loathed them all so much. It saddened him, but he was an intelligent man and life and circumstances had made a realist of him.

 

Today he would confront Sirius and make him see reason even if he had to beat the annoying animagus about the head with a rolled up newspaper. It worked wonders when Padfoot wouldn't stay off the furniture whilst in animal form.

 

Remus stood and put his tea things in the sink for Kreacher to clean up later. Doing the dishes was one of the few chores in which the aged elf seemed the least bit proficient. Remus was grateful for that at least, even if Kreacher's cooking remained iffy. So far the werewolf's hypersensitive nose had detected nothing overtly harmful in the food, though he and Sirius were convinced the elf probably spit in each and every dish out of pure spite. Remus shuddered and resolved to not think about it, but would be interested in picking a certain Potions Master's brain about the properties of House Elf saliva if Severus would ever unbend enough to have a civil conversation with him that wasn't directly related to Order business.

 

Remus drew his shabby robes about him, exited the kitchen, and tread softly through the downstairs hall and up the stairs, ever mindful of the presence of Mrs Black's hateful portrait. When he wasn't eating, drinking, or attempting to seduce Remus, Sirius was usually cloistered with Buckbeak up in what used to be his parents' bedroom. He would begin his search for his friend there. Or he would have, had Sirius not found him first.

 

“Gotcha!” Sirius growled as he pounced from behind and pinned Remus to the wall.

 

The werewolf's senses were either not quite as sharp as he thought, or he'd been too intent on his ruminations regarding the man pressed against his back like a second skin to notice the idiot creeping up on him.

 

“Padfoot!”

 

“Merlin, Moony.” the animagus muttered, nuzzling Remus' neck. “You smell so good.”

 

Remus rolled his eyes. Sirius smelled of fire whiskey and hippogriff.

 

“It's call soap, Pads. You should try it sometime.” Remus snarked while using his superior strength to lever himself off the wall and send Sirius staggering back from him. He heard Padfoot hit the wall across the hall with a thud. When Lupin turned he saw that Black's knees had given out upon impact and he was now sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, glaring up at him through bleary bloodshot eyes.

 

“You sayin' I stink?”

 

“I'm saying you're drunk as a skunk and smell almost as fragrant.” Remus crossed his arms and returned his friend's glare threefold. The man's haggard appearance was incongruous with the finely tailored yet out of date robes he wore. Deep plum velvet with wide lapels and gold trim. Underneath, his gold paisley shirt was unbuttoned nearly to his naval, and his pinstriped cream colored bell bottoms hung on his frame like a sack instead of cleaving obscenely tight as they had in his youth. Remus remembered when Paddy purchased them back near the end of their seventh year, to impress some silly bint he fancied that week. Olivia Something-or-other. The man was stuck in a time warp.

 

Sirius snorted and his face relaxed into a lazy lopsided grin. “Drunk as a skunk? What's that even mean?

 

“It's a muggle expression. It means you are exceedingly intoxicated.”

 

“Well, yeah. A bottle of fire whiskey will do that to you. That's the point.” Sirius scratched his head and then gave his armpit a tentative sniff. “An' I don't stink!”

 

“Your olfactory sense is impaired by all the whiskey fumes wafting off of you then, because trust me, you're ripe, Padfoot. You haven't had a shower in four days.”

 

“It hasn't been that long, quit bein' so prissy.” Sirius smirked and leaned forward. “An my nose is working jus' fine thanks. Good enough to notice how great you smell. Like leather and cedar. S'good.”

 

“Sirius-”

 

“C'mon, Remus. If you won't touch me, least let me touch you.” Sirius waggled his eyebrows. “I mean, I'm already down here an everything. I could suck you off.” The animagus licked his lips and began to shift up on his knees.

 

“I have to decline.”

 

“Huh?” Sirius cocked his head to the side, puzzled.

 

“I don't want you to _suck me off,_ Pads.” Remus huffed and ran a hand through his hair. The conversation wasn't going well.

 

Sirius wrinkled his brow and squinted at the werewolf as though he were speaking a foreign language. “Why the hell not?” He truly didn't understand. If someone was graciously offering to give him oral sex he would have his pants around his ankles and his fingers buried in their hair by now. Sirius shivered. If only he could be so lucky. Lovely hot wet mouth on his prick sounded like paradise to him.

 

“Oh, I don't know, Padfoot. Could it be because I'm not sexually attracted to you? Hmm?”

 

Sirius looked pained and confused as he settled on his knees, bottom resting on his feet. “But-” the man began to whine. “I'm Sirius Black.”

 

Remus glowered at the irritating man-child. “Why should that make a difference?” He loomed over his kneeling friend, the wolf in him growling in his mind. “Because you're Sirius Black I should be honored to submit to your ham-handed seduction?”

 

“Everyone always wanted me before!” was the animagus' petulant reply.

 

Moony growled and looked at the man on the floor with distaste. “That was nearly twenty years ago, Sirius!” Did Padfoot think he could be lumped with his teenage conquests? “And you were chasing ditzy girls with even less virtue than brains! Think about who you're talking to, man! I'm not Marigold Hooper or Natalie Wick!”

 

Sirius blinked and shook his head. “I know that, Moony.” He rose to his feet and swayed for a moment before leaning back against the wall to steady himself. “I can barely even remember those girls. I want you now.”

 

“Sirius, get this through that obnoxiously thick skull of yours. You are my friend, but I don't want you that way.”

 

“But in school-”

 

“In school I was young, and curious, and confused about my sexuality.” Remus snapped. “I experimented a bit, like boys the world over. I got that out of my system years ago. I'm not confused any longer, Padfoot. I prefer women, and if it wasn't for my curse I'd be married with sprogs swarming all over the place by now.”

 

Sirius seemed to shrink in on himself. He lowered his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, and scuffed his bare foot on the rug like a pouting child denied a favorite treat. “Ok, Moony. If that's the way you want it.” he mumbled.

 

“It is.” Remus sighed. He hated seeing his friend reduced to a shadow of his former self. “Things will get better, Padfoot. Your name will be cleared and you'll be able to go out in the world again.”

 

An inelegant snort was Sirius' only reply.

 

“Don't be bitter, Sirius.” Black's head jerked up and he glared at Lupin's soft tone. “I know you have reason, but please, Pads. You'll drive yourself mad if you don't get a handle on yourself.”

 

The animagus sneered. “You've changed, Moony.” the man said, voice low and dripping with disgust. “Once upon a time you would have been all for helping me sneak out of this hell hole. What happened to the boy who lived for mischief? What happened to the boy who knew hundreds of jinxes and wasn't afraid to use them? What happened to the boy who was always up for a good time?”

 

“That boy grew into the man who fathered your godson, Padfoot.” Remus offered the man a sad smile and shrugged. “I was the quiet one who helped plan, and looked the other way while you two went about creating mayhem. I was the boy who made sure you two maniacs finished your homework on time, and didn't oversleep and miss class. I was the boy who picked up the pieces when one of your crazy schemes crashed and burned. I've matured, but I haven't changed all that much.”

 

Sirius seemed to swell with anger. His face flushed deepest red and he clenched his fists. He looked at his friend through narrowed eyes and seemed on the verge of shouting. Then his shoulders slumped and the man deflated. His eyes widened and began to water. Sirius shook his head and looked away.

 

“I...” Sirius began in a voice choked with emotion. “I'm sorry, Moony. I was out of line. We're good friends, always have been, but...”

 

“But James was like your brother, and you miss him. I understand, Pads. I do. But I can't be James for you.” Remus reached out and settled his hand on Sirius' shoulder, trying to comfort without being too familiar. “You went to Azkaban when you were still so young, and only a couple of days after James died. You were filled with rage. Then you were dealing with Dementors, and trying to hold on to your sanity in that hellhole. I don't think you've taken the time to properly grieve.”

 

Sirius nodded. “I just miss him. James was always there, like my other half. Sometimes I catch myself about to turn to him to share a joke or ask a question. But he's never there. And then I look at you, expecting to see the boy I knew, but instead there is a man with laugh lines and gray in his hair.” Sirius took a deep breath and shivered. “I think, 'That isn't right. Enough time hasn't passed for you to have those lines, or all that gray.' Then I look in a mirror, and-”

 

“And?”

 

“I see my father's face. Sometimes, I can see a bit of the young Devil-May-Care Gryffindor I once was, but mostly I see Orion Black. The unmitigated bastard that ruled my childhood with an iron fist. He stares me in the face every time I'm foolish enough to glance in a mirror, and I hate it.”

 

It was hard to tell which emotion was stronger in the man in that moment. Sadness or bitterness. Remus could understand how conflicted Sirius was. He felt the same when he saw the characteristic amber eyes of a werewolf gazing back at him every morning in the glass. He too felt a wistful desire to turn back the clock to before misfortune had saddled him with his curse. Wished his eyes were still the rich chocolate brown that he could only remember when he looked at old family albums.

 

Padfoot sighed and moved away, allowing Moony's hand to slip from his shoulder. He walked to the nearest window and drew back the drapes so he could look outside. “Inside I feel like I'm part burnt remnants of a boy, and part wheezing old convalescent, but despite how very old I sometimes feel, somehow I don't really feel grown up. Even when I look at Harry and realize he'll be a man himself in just a few short years. He looks so much like James, but I barely know him. Everyone has moved on but me. You-Know-Who is back, but I'm a fugitive and unable to really contribute to the Order like I did before. I have the drive and desire to make a difference, but no one will let me.”

 

Remus smirked at his friend's back. “That was rather introspective for you, Pads. Do you always become so eloquent when you're drunk?”

 

Sirius snorted but didn't turn around. “Ha bloody ha, Moony.”

 

The animagus leaned closer to the window and squinted at a distant dot in the sky which became larger as it approached. His heart skipped a beat and a genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was an owl! _It might be a message from Harry!_ Sirius unlocked the window and threw up the sash with alacrity and leaned out.

 

As the owl drew closer it was plain to see that it wasn't the snowy white of his godson's trusted familiar, but instead the light rusty brown and cream of a Barn Owl. Sirius didn't allow that to dim his enthusiasm; Harry had sent messages with different school owls before. With that hag Umbridge at Hogwarts it was safer to do so.

 

“Sirius!”

 

“Post, Moony. Keep your hair on.”

 

Soon the owl reached the casement, and Sirius offered it his arm as a roost.

 

“Sorry I don't have any treats to for you.” Sirius apologized. The owl hooted and extended its leg in indifference. Sirius struggled for a moment, untying the missive one-handed, but finally managed to free the letter. Relieved of its burden the owl was soon aloft and headed back to whence it came.

 

“Hmm. Looks like Dumbledore's writing.” Sirius muttered as he checked the address and then broke the seal.

 

As Sirius read, Remus was alarmed to see his lips press together so tight as to turn while as an angry flush rose up his neck from his collar, and his brow lowered until he was scowling furiously at whatever the letter contained. The animagus' hands began to tremble until Sirius crumpled the message into a ball, shoved it in Moony's hands, and then let forth a highly impressive stream of expletives.

 

“That miserable bitch! That inbred, arse-licking whore! That conniving, cock-sucking, toad-faced cunt! When I get my hands on that woman I'll twist her ugly fucking head so far backwards she'll be able to watch herself shit! How dare she!”

 

Remus ignored the rest of Sirius's rant, focused instead on smoothing out the parchment so he could find out what had set his friend off so spectacularly. He hadn't seen the man that livid since the time in seventh year when Snape hexed Paddy's cauldron and caused him to be drenched in an impotency potion. Took almost a full month to wear off, and Sirius nearly lost his reputation as reigning cocksman of Gryffindore as a result. Considering Snape only did that in retaliation for Sirius charming all of the Slytherin girls' robes to be transparent in back, Remus figured he got off fairly light. Severus was fiercely protective, and could be far more vicious. Lupin dispelled the memory with a wistful smile, then proceeded to see what had Black's knickers in a twist this time.

 

_Dear Sirius,_

 

_I must first admonish you to remain calm. Harry is now safe, and we are working to rectify the situation._

 

Remus smirked. Asking Paddy to remain calm was like asking the wind not to blow.

 

_I'm afraid the power Minister Fudge granted the woman has gone to Madam Umbrage's head, and she grievously overstepped her bounds yesterday evening. She ordered severe corporal punishment be meted out against Harry, and called in Walden Macnair to administer it._

 

Remus began to growl low in his throat. Sirius's rant was more than justified. In fact, his invective might not be quite strong enough.

 

_Young Harry was subjected to a brutal whipping which left him terribly injured. Thankfully, at great personal risk to himself, Severus was able to rescue Harry and deliver the boy into my care, where he remains safe._

 

At that point Moony would have been happy to murder the bitch himself. He could tear her wretched throat out with his teeth, and not feel an ounce of guilt when he was finished. Only the fact of Severus's intervention stayed him.

 

_Rest assured, thanks to Severus's prodigious skills Harry is mending, and well on the road to a complete recovery. He will have to remain in hiding for the time being. If the Ministry were to gain custody of Harry at this time I fear what might befall the lad._

 

_Once he is healed I think it would be prudent to move him to headquarters. Harry would no doubt enjoy spending time with you, and Remus will be able to tutor him so that his absence from school will not hamper his education. Until such time as Cornelius can be made to see reason, and removes Madam Umbrage from her position, it would be too unsafe for Harry to return to Hogwarts._

 

Considering Harry would be joining them shortly he knew Sirius failed to read past the point of Harry being injured. He fully agreed with the Headmaster's reasoning, and would be happy to tutor his favorite student, but knew he would have to work harder at curbing Sirius's excesses. The boy definitely didn't need to deal with a drunken godfather on top of everything else.

 

_Please prepare accommodations for Harry's long term residence at headquarters, and expect us to arrive in a few days. Do try to not worry too much in the meantime. I promise you Harry will be fine._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

 

By the time Remus finished reading the letter Sirius had stopped foaming at the mouth and had lapsed into silently seething.

 

“I'll kill that woman. See if I don't.” Sirius growled.

 

“I'm sure you'll have plenty of competition. But don't do anything rash. Harry is coming to stay with us and he doesn't need you haring off and getting your sorry arse landed back in Azkaban.” Remus said. He was gratified to see his friend's mood shift instantaneously upon hearing his godson would be joining them.

 

“Harry's coming?” the man asked, bouncing in place like an eager puppy.

 

“Dumbledore said he'll be here in just a few days.”

 

Sirius whooped in glee, and danced a little jig.

 

“I thought you'd like that bit at least.” Remus smiled. “We are instructed to prepare for Harry staying long term; at least until Albus can sort out the issues with Umbrage and the Ministry.”

 

“Maybe we could redo Reggie's old suite for him. It has a nice sitting room attached, and a comfortable window seat in the bedroom. He's really going to miss his friends, not being able to return to Hogwarts. Maybe fixing up those rooms for him will cheer him up a bit.” Sirius began with enthusiasm, then sobered, “He will be okay, won't he, Moony?”

 

“According to the letter, Albus and Severus managed to patch him up, and he's healing.” Remus answered.

 

“Snivellous-” Paddy began to snarl.

 

“Saved him. Severus saved him, Pads.” the werewolf reasoned.

 

“But-” Sirius tried to interrupt.

 

“But nothing. He saved Harry, Sirius.” Remus pleaded, “You need to let go of this animosity.”

 

Sirius only growled before stomping off toward Regulus's old rooms to begin working. It worried Remus that his friend refused to be reasonable where Severus was concerned, but compared to all of his other issues... Remus would have to pick his battles. For now Moony would concentrate on keeping his friend away from liquor, and hope Sirius would be a bit more mature once he'd dried out a bit.

 

 


	7. Portrait of a Young Wizard

Monday, May 5th – Early Morning

 

 

The young man wrung out the flannel, then began gently sponging the sweat from his patient's waxen brow. At times the unconscious professor thrashed in his sleep, and his young caretaker would hold his hand and murmur words of comfort in his ear; his voice soft and melodic as he soothed the older man. Harry had been at his post, diligently looking after the Potions Master, since midnight. The Headmaster was to relieve him in another hour, at three, but Harry wasn't tired and felt he probably could have watched over Snape all night. Dumbledore was adamant about taking the third shift though. He probably felt as guilty about the Slytherin's current condition as Harry did, if not more so, having been the ritual's architect.

 

Snape's magic flared and attempted to repel the freshly embedded talisman almost as soon as the ritual was completed. Dumbledore hadn't been expecting such a violent reaction, but was able to counteract the instinctive reflex in the end. The result was a severe case of magical exhaustion for the Potions Master, coupled with a low-grade fever. The surly man was in for a miserable few days. The effects of magical exhaustion were even nastier than a bout of wizards flu.

 

According to the Headmaster, Snape would feel sore all over, as if he'd been trampled by a heard of angry hippogryphs, he would have a pounding headache, and would be weak as a kitten. Knowing the man's normal disposition, Harry would hazard a guess that he would be even grouchier than usual, and most of his ire would no doubt be directed at Harry. The boy-who-lived found he could accept whatever treatment his Professor wanted to mete out with equanimity. It would mitigate some of the guilt he was feeling anyway, at least until Snape was back on his feet again.

 

Harry would never be able to forget the way Snape's face contorted in agony during the ritual, or the unearthly shrieks that seemed to erupt from the dark man's mouth, as though torn from the very cellar of his soul. Were it not for Dumbledore's steady presence, Harry felt certain he would have caved and aborted the ritual. Though it might prove itself savior of the Slytherin's life, the ritual was unadulterated torture; for everyone involved.

 

The older man moaned in his sleep, prompting Harry to take his hand once more. The professor seemed to enjoy the contact. His eyes slowed their rapid movements beneath their lids for a time, at least, and his vocalizations ceased. Harry smiled and began to hum under his breath as he wiped the cool cloth over the man's face and neck with his free hand, and Snape stilled completely, finally slipping deeper into a healing sleep.

 

Harry took note that his professor's skin no longer looked as waxy or flushed. The fever was breaking. He breathed a sigh of relief and dropped the flannel into the waiting basin of water and leaned back in his chair. The older man was truly on the mend now. Harry leaned forward, pulling the blankets further up around Snape's shoulders, and had to suppress an inappropriate smile when the wizard nuzzled his wrist in his sleep.

 

Harry blushed and carefully removed his hands from the bed. He didn't know what was wrong with him lately, but he was sure his reactions to certain males might spell trouble. He didn't know of any openly gay wizards, or even bisexual ones. The wizarding world was so exceedingly old fashioned; Harry worried that homosexuality might be frowned upon even more than it was in the muggle world. He already had to hide so much of himself to get by. Was a new secret emerging within him that he would have to inhibit as well? How would people react to a gay boy-who-lived? Was he even gay?

 

He knew he found the cleaned up version of his Potions Professor attractive, and he'd caught himself checking out a few of his Quidditch team members in the showers this year, before the toad banned him from playing. He was confused, and rather conflicted. He wasn't sure he wanted to be even more different from his peers than he already was.

 

A tapping at the window gave the young Gryffindor a much needed respite from his disquieting contemplation. He rose from his seat by the bed and hurried to the window before the noise could disturb Snape's rest. Opening the drapes, Harry barely restrained himself from whooping with glee when he was greeted with the sight of his faithful familiar waiting on the window sill. She blinked at him through the glass, then admonished him with a hurrying hoot to let her in, which he did with alacrity.

 

“I'm so glad to see you girl!” Harry whispered, stroking the owls breast for a moment before retrieving the small package secured to her leg. “And so sorry you got left behind. I landed in an even bigger mess than usual. I'll tell you all about it later, okay?”

 

Hedwig fluffed up her feathers and gave him a low sorrowful hoot, which Harry took to mean she understood and forgave him. He closed the window and then set about liberating her of her burden. He noticed the handwriting on the parchment, and the sloppiness of the knots, and knew immediately who it was that sent his beloved owl to him. Ron's writing was even messier than his own. Harry grinned, delighted his friend was looking out for him and his familiar.

 

Harry was even happier when he worked the package free and parted the parchment to discover his miniaturized trunk within. He had seriously thought all of his worldly possessions were going to be forfeit. Umbrage was hardly going to surrender anything so rare and useful as an invisibility cloak.

 

Reading his friends' message comforted him a great deal, even when he read about the plan to block him receiving his rightful education. _I'm not going to worry._ The phrase became a mantra to ward off the panicky dread he felt encroaching on the edges of his mind. He was currently with two of the most clever wizards he was ever likely to meet. They would have ideas on how to work around Malfoy's petty plots. It felt good to have adults to rely on for once. He knew the two men would help him, so he forced himself to relax, and not take on more unneeded anxiety. Harry only hoped in the few remaining weeks of school, Umbrage would not have reason to take out her frustrations on Ron or Hermione in his stead.

 

Harry put the trunk and note in the pocket of his borrowed sweats. He patted the pocket with a fond smile on his face, before turning his attention back to his patient.

 

Snape's chest rose and fell with the rhythmic regularity of the tide. It was like a soothing balm for raw nerves. Harry felt perceptions he'd had for ages, shifting; caught up in a strange inexorable metamorphosis.

 

Harry discovered that the professor had an oddly endearing habit of making small snuffling sounds in his sleep. It was kind of adorable, as was the way Snape hugged his pillow so tightly to his chest when he shifted to sleep on his side. And it was amusing to learn that the Potions Master was also prone to drooling on his pillow, much like Ron; Harry, however, would never mention it to either volatile wizard. Despite what people believed, he didn't have a death wish.

 

It is strange the things one begins to notice as soon as they realize their professors are actually human after all. How had he fooled himself into thinking Snape was some kind of preternatural being – singular and inscrutable – when it was so obvious that he was just a man?

 

And what of the Headmaster? The greatest enigma of them all? Harry was forced to admit he had allowed himself to be influenced by the opinions of those he cared for – to be fair, on rather short acquantance – and had placed the old man on a pedestal. He knew better than most how miserable it was to have unfair assumptions made about you based on gossip and hearsay. Harry resolved to do better, and try to always remember that Dumbledore wasn't infallible. Brilliant, yes, but even he couldn't know everything. Mistakes would be made.

 

Harry found he could accept that. In a way, it was comforting to think of his mentor as a simple man of flesh and blood, rather than some sort of omniscient mystic far removed from mere mortals like himself. If Dumbledore wasn't perfect, then that meant Harry didn't have to be either. As long as he tried as hard as he could, and did his absolute best, he could live with the results. That's what adults were meant to do, right?

 

“ _Is this how growing up feels? Is it really just a difference in perception and understanding?”_ Harry narrowed his eyes as he pondered. _“One minute you're a kid, and everything seems too big and too complicated to handle, and then you really begin to see how things actually are? Like Snape and the Headmaster?”_

 

It wasn't as earth-shattering as he might have once supposed, these realizations. Of course, Hermione often said he was as old soul, whatever that meant, so perhaps it was a bigger event in the lives of other normal teenagers. Instead of just a moment of, “Oh, right. That makes more sense now.” Perhaps he had been coming to these conclusions for a few years, so in the end it wasn't as surprising? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't going to worry about it.

 

His life was stressful enough as it was, without inventing additional anxiety to saddle himself with. No. He was adopting a better strategy. He would keep his head down, work hard, and keep moving forward. No distractions. He would think about building some kind of happiness in his life later on. After Voldemort was no longer a threat. Ron might think he'd gone mental, but he was sure Hermione would approve of his newfound maturity.

 

“Harry?” the young Gryffindor heard his name called softly from the door, and turned to see the Headmaster standing there, wearing perhaps one of the most garish dressing gowns in existence, holding two mugs of cocoa topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. The old man gave him a benevolent smile and made his way over in a fluttering of vibrant fushia and electric blue silk. His long hair was covered in a matching night cap, and his beard was braided. Harry had to suppress a giggle at Dumbledore's appearance.

 

“It can't be three already.” Harry whispered.

 

“Not quite, but I couldn't sleep anyway, so I thought perhaps we would both benefit from a nice cup of hot chocolate.” the old man's eyes twinkled in the dim light and Harry gifted him with a large smile.

 

Harry took his cup and gave himself a whipped cream mustache with the first sip. Dumbledore chuckled when the young man merely licked it off with a sheepish shrug. The wizened elder conjured himself a seat beside his young protege and settled in.

 

“The Professor seems to be doing much better. His fever's broken, I think.” Harry informed the Headmaster.

 

Dumbledore turned his wand toward the Potions Master and waved it in a series of quick diagnostic spells. Colorful sparks danced over the man's prone form for a moment before fading. Harry noted that the Professor had shifted onto his back at some point while his student was thinking. The Headmaster nodded in satisfaction.

 

“He is much improved indeed, Harry. I do believe he will make a full recovery in just a few days. Thank you for sitting up with him.” Dumbledore murmured.

 

“I'm glad he's healing well.” Harry answered with a half smile. “It was no trouble to sit with him.”

 

Dumbledore waved his wand over Harry next, surprising the young wizard into almost spilling his drink. As the colors swirled and danced over his skin, the boy noticed how different the Headmaster's medical diagnosis spells were from Madam Pomfrey's. Her spells weren't nearly as colorful, and they produced a report parchment from the tip of the wand that listed the results. Dumbledore seemed to read the colors themselves.

 

“I'm sure you are still a bit sore, Harry, but you have healed quite excellently. I would say by this time tomorrow all physical traces of your ordeal will be gone.” Dumbledore put his wand away and patted Harry's shoulder. “Now, my dear boy, I think it's time for me to take up the watch. You should get some rest.”

 

Harry nodded, placed his half-empty cup on the nightstand, and stood, stretching. He clasped the Headmaster's shoulder in affection for a moment, then began to leave the room. He was almost out the door when he remembered the message from his friends. He paused in the doorway for a heartbeat, and decided it was best to let the Headmaster know right away. Light-footed, like a cat he padded back to the old wizard and slipped the letter into his hands. Dumbledore looked up at him with a quizzical arch to his brow.

 

“Ron and Hermione sent this to me with Hedwig.” Harry began to explain. “It's nothing too important, Sir, but you should know Umbrage, Fudge, and Lucius Malfoy are scheming together.” he finished with a huff, and raked a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

 

“Those three scheme in their sleep, Mister Potter, as you should know by now.” Snape rasped from the bed, startling both the boy and his elder.

 

“Severus!” Albus tucked the letter in his robe pocket and gave the man his full attention. “How do you feel?”

 

“Like a bloody goblin worked me over with its war-hammer.” Snape grouched and struggled to push himself up on his elbows. “The ritual was a success?”

 

Dumbledore merely smiled at the Potions Master's surly tone. If he was well enough to snark at them, he was well on the road to recovery indeed.

 

“Your mark is completely contained.” Albus hedged, but was forced to continue when Snape gave him one of his patented glares. “But... the ritual was not without complications. I'm afraid you've ended up rather magically exhausted, my boy. You're going to need a great deal of rest in the coming days.”

 

“Easier said than done, when one has a couple of fools nattering on by his bedside.” the Slytherin snarked.

 

Dumbledore smiled, and Harry laughed outright.

 

“Goodnight, Sir. Hope you feel better.” Harry said, taking his leave. He was sure the Headmaster would want to speak to the man privately.

 

“Yes, well... goodnight, Potter.” Severus said, discomfort writ clear on his features. “Thank you for your assistance.”

 

He had been dozing and playing possum for the past twenty minutes or so, and was rather embarrassed that the boy had been caring for him. Again. He hoped it wasn't going to become a habit, even if his pupil was rather gentle in his ministrations. If Potter didn't have a madman after him, he would suggest the boy might be well-suited to the healing arts. As it was, Defense was going to figure rather heavily in his immediate future; a sad necessity.

 

“You're welcome, Sir.” Potter answered him softly, then left the two older wizards alone.

 


End file.
